Bat Out of Hell
by NittanyLizard
Summary: Unwilling to quietly succumb to the guilt of his father’s secret, Bob becomes intent on guarding the last vestige of innocence in his family, no matter what the cost.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**Prologue**

"_I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell . . ."_

Hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the boy leaned his upper arm against a regal oak – one that had probably been planted two-hundred years earlier when the cemetery was first commissioned for public burials. He was close enough to make out the minister's words, but far enough away that if anyone noticed him, they made no indication.

"We gather here today to commend one of God's children to His merciful love."

A dark-haired woman hugged her arms tightly around her own body, as if she were supporting herself because there was nobody else to lean on. She let out a tight sob and quickly regained control, but then hunched forward a little more.

The man beside her stood with a blank expression. He might just as easily have been attending an auction. Every so often he took a deep shuddering breath and reached up to brush a hand through his damp hair; when he did, the sleeve of the cheap suit he wore rode up his wrists to display the inadequacy of its fit.

"We ask you, God, creator of all life, to forgive your son of his sins, and to welcome him to your holy kingdom."

Another group of people, separate from the man and the woman, hung their heads. They were men and boys, all of them, and not a one of them looked comfortable in the suit he wore. The smallest one, pale and shaky-looking, wrung his tie with his hands repeatedly as he stared at the ground in front of him.

"Let us pray together. Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with Thee. Blessed art though amongst women . . ."

As he leaned against the oak listening to the familiar words, an unwelcome but all-too-familiar tightness crept into the boy's throat. Swallowing only seemed to feed the lump until it felt like it was cutting off his airway; and when he saw the largest man in the group place a steadying hand on the pale boy's arm in a show of brotherly support, he struggled desperately to shake off the emotional wave that threatened to knock him to his knees.

". . . now, and at the hour of our death. Amen. Lord, open your arms to this, your son, and grant solace to those who loved him as you do."

Tears blurred his vision as he watched the graveside ritual – the third one he had attended in his life.

The first had been many years ago, and he retained very little memory of it. There had been black pant-legs, and tall people, and he hadn't understood why nobody wanted to play hide-and-seek with him. His father, surrounded by mostly unfamiliar men and a few uncles, had been stoic, and his mother was busy and preoccupied; after the funeral, he had finally been taken for a walk to look at the new spring flowers in a nearby park. That, he remembered well, and the memory of the smiling dark-haired boy who had taken him for that walk was enough to bring tears spilling out as he choked back a sob.

_Don't be gone, please don't be gone, make it all a be mistake_, he begged for the hundredth time that week; but he knew it wasn't, and he knew that he would never wake up from this nightmare.

_Stop it,_ he reprimanded himself. _Get control of yourself. Don't let anyone see you cry. Not here, not now._

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . ."

The dark-haired woman hunched forward and gave in to the sobs she had been fighting. None of the others wept outright, though even from where he stood he could see that their expressions bore the grief and pain nurtured by the permanence of death.

Brushing away the tears and swallowing around the lump, he watched the mourners briefly console one another before they slowly scattered toward the edges of the cemetery and their waiting cars. Within moments, a few burly grounds men approached the gravesite to activate the apparatus that would lower the casket. He watched, fixated, as it was swallowed by the earth. The men detached their chains and ropes, gathered everything together, and left.

It was then that he emerged from the shade of the oak to take what felt like endless tentative steps toward the open hole in the ground, which would be filled later, without ceremony, by a roaring backhoe.

He approached the edge of the hole with caution, annoyed by the eerie feeling that gripped his gut at being alone in a cemetery.

As soon as he was close enough to see the edge of the casket, he stopped.

It was plain, it was brown, and it bore no ornate decoration and no indication that the person inside had been anything but a poor boy whose life would be forgotten as easily as the autumn leaves that give way to the green buds of spring.

"So, this is it," he finally spoke, startled at the volume of his own voice, which he had expected to emerge sounding soft, weak, and frightened. It didn't, and he was glad. If this dead boy did hear him, he would know that it was a strong and confident person who spoke – not someone who was unsure of himself and afraid of the life that stretched before him.

"This is it," he repeated. He wanted to say more. He felt it inside, and he had thought it through, everything he wanted to say. But now, here, standing in front of this box that couldn't hear him, the words seemed pointless. If the boy in the casket _could_ hear the words, then surely he could also sense the feelings of the person who stood before his grave.

He took a shaky breath and turned away, but walked only two steps before deciding that there was something he _did_ want to say out loud. Not bothering to stop, he turned to walk backwards as he spoke. "You deserved it, John Cade," he whispered, his breath catching in his throat when an unexpected sob escaped. "And I hope you burn in hell for what you did."


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**A/N**: Nothing against Leif Garret, but he is not the guy I picture as Bob. If he fits the description for you, by all means, imagine him in this story. Otherwise – dark hair, dark eyes, handsome, reckless grin, something that sets him apart from the crowd . . . that's the Bob I used when I wrote this story.

* * *

_**Six months earlier**_

"_The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling_

_Way down in the valley tonight . . ."_

Oblivious to the icy March wind, Bob used a greasy forearm to swipe distractedly at the loose hair that hung across his forehead. _Perfect_, he thought, setting a rag aside and admiring his reflection in the blue enamel paint below him. He didn't usually get all warm and fuzzy inside from looking at one of his possessions, but this one was different. This one went above and beyond. This one was _worth_ it.

Crap.

No, it wasn't, and no amount of pretending was going change that. It had put The Judge out plenty of money, though, and if that was the way he wanted to pay for his sins, Bob figured he shouldn't have to feel guilty over it.

_Shit_. Goddamned asshole. _Why can't I just enjoy my first car like any other guy?_ But "shouldn't have to feel guilty" just wasn't the same as "didn't feel guilty", no matter how many ways Bob twisted it. He wrapped his hand around the rag and clenched it in his fist. Every _fucking_ thing he owned was tainted with the same stinking bullshit cloud of shame, because it all came out of The Judge's wallet. He was sick of it. Sometimes, almost literally.

"Nice wheels."

Bob grinned and turned to the voice. _What the hell_, he thought, _I wasn't the one who painted myself into a corner._ We all have our crosses to bear, or some such shit. Besides, he probably would have gotten me this car regardless.

"The old man didn't even bargain for her," Bob told his best friend with an air of disappointment in his voice. "Just walked in, pulled the sticker off the window, and said, 'We'll take her.'" He gave a more lopsided smile. "No sense of the game at all."

Looking amused, Randy shook his head. "Bob, you have got the oddest sense of what to complain about. I'm _still_ trying to talk my dad into that Corvair, and my birthday was two months ago! _And_, he's expecting me to put in ten percent." He shook his head again, a less amused expression crossing his face. "And now he's thinking we should wait until after this summer, after I do my internship with the business." Randy gave his voice a mocking edge. "It'll be my _reward_, for a job well done."

Bob laughed, wishing his show of amusement didn't feel so forced. "I envy you not, buddy. Your pop is so tight-fisted, you'd think _he_ was the one who stepped off the boat instead of his daddy." That wasn't true at all – that he didn't envy Randy. He did envy him. It just wasn't the kind of envy that made him want to switch lives or anything.

"I'll tell you what," Bob said, reaching into the front seat and opening the glove compartment to dump out the owner's manual. "Hand me a pen."

"What makes you think I have a pen?"

He waggled his hand. "Come on, just fork it over." Ever since the fourth grade, Randy never went anywhere without a pen.

Randy slid a pen out of his back pocket and set it in Bob's hand.

Bob opened the manual to the inside front cover and started writing. When he was done, he handed the book to Randy. "There ya' go, pal. If you're real lucky, no need to wait for the old man to pull through."

With a smile, Randy took the manual and read aloud: "_Let it hereby be known that in the event of my death,_ _it is my last wish that this 289 V-8 Sapphire Blue pony be transferred to one Randy Adderson at the earliest convenience of the finder of this last will and testament. Robert William Sheldon. _Nice." He handed the book back to Bob, who tossed it back into the glove compartment. "Hang on – what if you die in a fiery crash? That manual dies with you."

Bob tossed the rag at his buddy. "So you'd want The Judge to haul the burned up crisp of a wreck to your front door so you could peel my charbroiled skin off the seats?"

Randy grinned. "Yeah, guess not. So you got her all shined up and tuned up, what, two days after she arrived?" He moved closer to the blue Mustang to run a gentle hand over her cool, smooth surface, then leaned under the open hood to gaze with admiration at the engine. "Very nice. Even the engine's shiny."

"Watch the fingerprints," Bob warned in mock-seriousness. He watched Randy circle the car, taking it all in.

Bob had waited months for this car, ever since he had first seen it gleaming on the showroom floor. The Judge had pressed for something more practical. It hadn't taken much convincing, though, to sway him to the virtues of the Mustang – one of the most obvious of those virtues being the knowledge that Neal Marcel's father had presented him with a fiery red Mustang only two weeks earlier. The Judge might not have had a competitive spirit when it came to bargaining, but damned if he would let somebody else's father believe that Stanly Sheldon, Esq., thought less of his brood than they thought of theirs.

Bob gritted his teeth and tried once again to push away thoughts of his father's ulterior reason for buying him the car.

The sound of the front door clicking shut snapped Bob back to the present.

"Boys," Bob's father greeted in his politely stiff way.

"Good morning, Judge Sheldon," Randy said, straightening up and extending a hand.

The Judge smiled at his son's closest friend as he gave his hand a solid shake. "Randy." He took a moment to look at his newest purchase. "Beauty, isn't she?" he asked, and Bob cringed inwardly at his father's attempt to sound like he understood the boys' fascination with this beast of a car.

"She sure is," Randy agreed.

Judge Sheldon glanced at his watch. "I need to get downtown, pick up a file I forgot." Bob ignored the subtle glance his father threw him. "You boys stay out of trouble, now." The corners of his mouth turned up in another forced grin.

"Oh, we will," Randy agreed, ignoring Bob's rolling eyes.

"Your dad's something else," Randy said as the Judge climbed into his waiting Cadillac and eased it out of the driveway. "Heading out to the office on a Sunday afternoon. Doesn't he have people to do that kind of stuff for him?"

"Yes, Mr. Sheldon, we'll behave, sir," Bob mocked, pointedly ignoring the question and raising his pitch a notch in imitation of _Leave it to Beaver's_ Eddie Haskel. "Don't you look wonderful today, Judge Sheldon. And how is Mrs. Sheldon faring today, Judge Sheldon? Judge Sheldon, before you leave, would you like me to suck your -"

"Bob!"

Randy gave Bob a good-natured swipe on the back of the head when his friend turned toward the house.

"Bob, it's almost two," Mrs. Sheldon called, attaching the clasp of a long string of pearls behind her neck before waving to Randy. "Hello, dear! Bobby, remember, we're having supper earlier today, since Brian is coming. He needs to get back to school tonight."

Bob nodded and brought the hood of the Mustang crashing down as his mother retreated, clicking the front door shut behind her. "Gotta get cleaned up," he said, sharing a disgusted look with his friend. "Brian's coming for supper."

Randy gave Bob a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Good luck, man. And try to be good."

"Yeah." Bob gave a grin that indicated anything but amusement. He shook his head and refrained from saying something negative about his brother, instead nodding to his friend, who understood Bob's family life better than almost anyone and could mentally insert the proper comments on his own. "I'll see you in school tomorrow, Randy."

#

Bob yanked irritably at his tie, unraveling it to restart the whole process that had already siphoned away six minutes of his life.

"I can do it for you."

Holding back a smile, Bob turned to the voice in his doorway. "Is that right?"

The blonde-haired, brown-eyed boy who stood before him gave a shrug and tugged lightly on his own neat-as-a-pin tie. "Daddy showed me how. He said I'm a natural."

"A natural, huh?" Bob gave a snort of amusement. "Ties aren't natural. How can you be a natural at something that's completely unnatural?"

Ignoring his brother's comment, Chris walked across the room to take hold of the ends of Bob's tie. Two twists, a tuck, and one light pull, and Bob's tie was almost as neat as his brother's. "I'm a natural at piano, too," the boy noted. "And at penmanship, and spelling, and organizing folders, and remembering how to get to people's houses." He gave his brother a lopsided grin. "Why, I imagine I'm even a natural at scraping dog poop off my shoes."

Bob chuckled and gave Chris a light punch in the shoulder. "Good job, kid. Don't let 'em get their claws into you." His smile faded when he glanced at the doorway. "Is Brian here yet?"

Chris shifted uncomfortably. "No." He took a deep breath before speaking in a rush. "You know, maybe you should talk to him. I mean, he's really not so -"

"No," Bob answered shortly through clenched teeth. "And I told you, it's none of your business. You don't know as much as you think you do. You're just a kid. You don't understand anything. Now get out so I can finish getting ready."

Pangs of guilt washed through Bob as he watched the door close behind his younger brother. He knew Chris hadn't deserved that. It wasn't the kid's fault that Brian took every advantage to launch himself into their father's spotlight, or that he was a fanatically willing participant in a game that Bob would have given the world to opt out of.

Moments later, Bob smiled bitterly to himself at the sound of the front door closing downstairs and the flurry of voices that followed. "Roll out the red carpet," he muttered to his empty bedroom. "Brian's here."


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**Chapter 2**

"_I gotta get out, I gotta break it out now . . ." _

Bob leaned haphazardly to the side of his chair and tugged at his necktie. He hated these ridiculous displays. _Let's all pretend we're normal._ Let's pretend that half of us don't want to rip each others' throats out.

His mother set her fork lightly to the side of her plate and used the napkin from her lap to dab with practiced grace at the sides of her mouth. She smiled across the table at her middle son. "Doesn't college sound wonderful, Bobby?"

Bob huffed, but forced a smile for his mother's sake. "Yeah. Wonderful."

Brian pursed his lips and gave Bob a contemplative stare before speaking. "You know, you could do it yet, Bobby. Just keep up your grades next year, and I'm sure Dean Hollowitz could pull another favor out of his hat for Dad."

The Judge chuckled, and Bob bristled. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'll make my own way."

Brian laughed out loud. "Sure, that'll be the day."

"Is everyone ready for dessert?" Mom asked, transitioning the conversation with a certain deft that, five years earlier, would have been lost to Bob.

He watched her move away from the table and glide to the doorway, dress flowing lightly on a body that was probably not much older than it had been twenty years earlier. She wasn't stunning, and she wasn't breathtaking, and she likely never had been; but somehow, she was ageless, and she glowed with an internal beauty that seemed to defy most other women. The same could not be said for Judge Sheldon, whose graying hair had thinned even as his middle had widened with age and prosperity. His mother rested a loyal hand on her husband's shoulder as she passed, and Bob resisted the urge to recoil in disgust.

"I'll pass," he called out.

"It's chocolate cake," Chris piped up in an almost pleading voice.

Bob grinned at his younger brother, the family peacemaker who, for the life of him, couldn't understand why his two older brothers were at odds. _And you'll never understand, if you're lucky_, Bob thought. He stood and gave Chris's shoulders a squeeze. "I'll have some tomorrow for breakfast, Pip."

Chris shrugged Bob's hands off of his shoulders. "Don't call me that," he griped. "And you can't have chocolate cake for breakfast."

Bob leaned down to Chris's ear and spoke in a low, threatening tone. "I can have whatever I want for breakfast. So don't eat it all, or I'll be coming after you. _I know where you sleep_."

A smile crept across Chris's mouth.

"Oh, are you leaving, Bob?" Mrs. Sheldon asked as she returned to the dining room. Her tone didn't hide her disappointment. She was followed closely by Rosella, who was rolling a tray full of dessert plates and one large chocolate cake in front of her.

"Don't get lost," Brian offered.

"I'll be back early," Bob answered, ignoring his brother's comment and the silent look of annoyance shot over by his father. "Just going over to Randy's house." He pulled his jacket out of the hall closet and escaped through the front door, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his purposeful stride.

As the blue Mustang's engine hummed to life, Bob reached over to the glove compartment and dumped out the cool silver flask. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath. He took a deep sigh as the burning fluid passed his lips and promised a short respite from the tension that squeezed at his gut whenever his family attempted to behave as if they were normal. "I will _never_ get lost, Brian. I will _never_ be you."

After taking one more swallow, he tossed the flask back into the glove compartment and backed out of the driveway.

#

"_So . . . you already know?"_

_Brian cast his younger brother an impatient look. "Of course I know. Do you think I'm stupid? Why do you think Dad got me that archery set last year? And do you think it was an accident that he suddenly dropped the idea of me paying for my own insurance?"_

_Bob shook his head. "That's not why. It's because . . ." But truly, he was at a loss for any other explanation for his father's sudden generous spirit. The Judge loved his children, but until recently, he had been of the mindset that you earned, at least in part, what you wanted. _

_Bob thought of his friends' fathers, who at least made a fuss about what they bought before they pulled their wallets out. Fathers were in control, always. Fathers knew when to say no, even if it worked to their disadvantage. And fathers did not allow themselves to be blackmailed by their own children. _

_Bob caught sight of the professional archery set that, having been used only once, leaned, abandoned, in the corner of Brian's bedroom; he twisted his hands together. "What . . . what should we do?"_

_Brian sat up abruptly and tossed his magazine aside. "What do you mean, _do_? Are you crazy? We're not _doing_ anything!"_

_Bob picked at a loose thread on his brother's blue quilt and took a deep breath. "But Mom -"_

"_Mom doesn't ever need to know anything," Brian snapped. "Do you understand? If you keep your big mouth shut, Mom will never know, and we can milk this thing for everything it's worth. Hell, I plan on getting whatever car I have a hankering for once my birthday comes."_

_Bob felt a guilty tightness creep into his chest. "I don't know."_

_An instant later, Brian had him by the collar up against the wall. "I swear to God, Bobby, if you ruin this for me, I will strangle you." His grip loosened. "Besides, what do you think would happen if you told? What do you think it would do to Mom? Huh? Don't be stupid. Play your cards right, and you can get anything you want out of this. You can get away with murder, and he won't say a thing about it." Apparently considering the matter dropped, Brian released his brother and crawled back onto his bed, once again buried in his magazine._

"_But Dad loves Mom," Bob ventured. "He could fix everything. If he just stopped, everything would -"_

_Brian shook his head, not tearing his eyes off the page. "You're so stupid, Bobby. You actually think he _wants_ to fix anything? Just get out of my room." He glanced up and gave Bob a warning look. "And don't you ever tell. I will never forgive you if you tell. And neither will Dad, or Mom. Because it would ruin this family if you told."_

"So I figured if we head over around eight, we can meet Jeff Parker there, and . . .Bob?"

Bob turned his gaze to his best friend in the seat next to him. "Huh?"

Randy shook his head. "Man, you were on another planet. What's going on?"

Bob gave a shrug. "Brian was over for dinner last night. Remember?" He waved a hand when his short-term memory caught up with him. "Oh yeah, and if anyone asks, I stopped by your house last night, about seven-thirty."

"Right-o. Here, there's a spot right there, up in front. I guess pulling out early pays off."

Bob turned the wheel, trying to bite back the grin that pulled at the corners of his mouth as his gleaming Mustang cut through the crowd of students, most of whom slowed down and turned to stare at it.

"Hands off the merchandise," Randy warned good-naturedly through his open window as David gave the cool blue surface a gentle rub.

"Just trying to get some good luck for that history test," David replied, grinning. He jerked his head to the group of white-shirted, leather-jacket donning boys who were clustered around one of the two trees near the edge of the parking lot. "Look at them, eyeing this thing like it's their last meal."

Bob climbed out of the driver's seat and glanced over. "Hey, as long as they don't get any of that damned grease on it, they can look all they want."

Randy laughed. "Hey, maybe you should go ask if one of 'em can come over and help out next time the engine needs to be lubed up."

Bob smiled and brushed away the lingering thoughts of his own family problems. "I may just do that," he agreed, striding over to the group. He stopped in front of the greasers. "Anyone got a cigarette?"

They wouldn't start anything. He knew they wouldn't. Not right outside of school, and sure as hell not when the guy in front of them had six friends right back there watching. Besides, Bob wasn't there to shake things up, and he figured they were smart enough to figure that out. He just wanted a cigarette.

After a brief pause, one of them reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a white unfiltered stick, and tossed it to the dark-haired young man. "Nice car," he said as he fished a match out of his back pocket.

Taking the match and striking it on the bottom of his shoe, Bob nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "Thanks for the smoke."

Randy shook his head in amusement as Bob returned to his friends.

David shook his head, too, but not in amusement. "Why you taking cigarettes off of those low-lifes? My parents pay their folks' unemployment checks."

David had this way of talking to people like he thought they were stupid. Like he thought they were _idiots_. It had only happened once before with Bob.

Bob took a slow drag from the cigarette and blew it out. "Well," he said, "then technically, this smoke belongs to you. You want it?" He held the cigarette toward David, lit end forward.

An awkward silence penetrated the group.

"No," David conceded, rubbing his left cheek where, if you looked close enough, you could see the scar.

It had been over a year, but Bob could read it in his eyes – David still remembered real clearly that Bob wasn't someone to be toyed with. _Good_, he thought. If you had to hit the same guy more than once, you did something wrong the first time around. Only time it was ever worth pounding the shit out of somebody was when you knew it was going to stay with them forever.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"_When the day is done_

_And the sun goes down_

_And the moonlight's shining through . . ." _

"Where you goin' tonight?"

Bob patted his hip to ensure the car keys were in his pocket, paused in front of the foyer mirror, and fished his comb out of his back pocket to run it through his hair. "Out."

Chris leaned back against the mahogany hall table with a pathetic look on his face as he watched his brother. "That's all you ever say."

"It's the truth. Right now, I'm in. In about ten seconds, I'll be out." He took an extra moment to stare at his reflection, almost subconsciously willing his expression to change from an easy smile to a cold stare and back again.

The teeth of the comb scraped against Bob's palm when Chris snatched it away from him. "How come I can't go?"

Bob grabbed his brother's wrist with equal dexterity and pried the comb from his fingers. "Because little eleven-year-olds ain't allowed."

"If you can say I'm not allowed, how come you can't tell me where you're going?"

_Smartass kid._ Bob had no intention of letting Chris make him feel guilty. He sighed and turned around to lean against the table next to Chris. "There's no plan, okay? We're going out, we're looking for some fun, and maybe we'll find . . ." Bob leaned down to Chris's ear and lowered his voice to a mock-frightening tone, "some _girls_!"

Not amused, the boy shouldered his brother away with a scowl.

"You're helping me take that stuff over to Randy's house tomorrow morning, right?" Bob asked, as if it was something he believed he'd already mentioned. If he couldn't shake the kid off with logic and humor, he'd have to resort to waving a carrot in front of his stubby little nose.

Chris's scowl almost melted into a grin, but he apparently didn't want to give Bob the satisfaction. "Stuff?"

"Yeah." Bob pulled his jacket on and stepped toward the front door. "Those records. You know – stuff." Chris gave a nonchalant shrug, but Bob could see he'd redeemed himself. "Hey, if you have other things to do . . ."

"No!" Chris said, stopping himself immediately to shrink back into nonchalance. "I mean, I don't have any plans. I can help. If you need me to."

Bob fought the insulting grin that was pulling at the corners of his mouth, nodding and turning to the door instead. "Good. Be ready by nine." He caught Chris' reflection in the ornate window that framed the door and smiled. Kids were just too easy to manipulate.

At that thought, his smile faded into a cold scowl of his own. _At least I learned one useful thing from The Judge_.

#

"Look at all of these girls," Randy said with a sweeping gaze across the rocky beach.

"Somebody must've told them I was coming," Bob said. He stumbled forward with a laugh when Randy gave him a playful shove.

"Bob!" somebody called out.

_Great_. Bob cast a sideways glance at Randy and rolled his eyes.

"Hey Bob, glad you could come! We got beer over by the rocks there, and some other stuff in coolers in Andy's trunk."

"Yeah, thanks Ethan." Bob gave a slight wave of his hand, and Ethan shuffled off to greet another partygoer. "You'd think he owned the beach and this was his own personal party," he muttered to Randy. "I mean, Christ, the guy gets a hold of some beer and he thinks he's God's gift to . . . us."

Randy laughed. "What a dweeb. Look at him now, squirreling his way up to those girls."

Bob watched, amused, as Ethan plodded alongside of two decent-looking girls. They were being polite, but even from where he stood he could see they were looking for an escape.

The only child of a malpractice lawyer, Ethan was the embodiment of boredom. It was like he did everything possible to make himself physically unappealing, from his hair style to his improperly sized and inadequately commissioned clothes. To top it off, he had no social skills whatsoever. But tonight, he had brought the beer.

The redheaded girl, scanning the faces ahead of them in a clear attempt at a rescue plea, smiled and nodded her head at Ethan, who was talking animatedly. Her dark-haired friend was making motions behind Ethan's back like she was wrapping a noose around her neck and hanging herself.

Bob smiled and tapped Randy's arm with the back of his hand. "Come on."

"So when they finally figured out that it was an infection, my podiatrist . . . oh. Bob, Randy? Did you find the beer?"

Bob gave a slight nod. "Yeah, sure. Hey, thanks for keeping our girls company, Ethan." He winked at the redhead, who seemed to be fighting back a smile as she reached for his hand. "We'll take care of them from here. Thanks, buddy." Bob gave Ethan a solid pat on the shoulder and took the girl by the hand. It was soft and strong at the same time, with neatly trimmed fingernails painted in a soft pink. Thinking back to the cotton candy he used to get at the fair, Bob resisted the urge to bring the girl's fingers up to his mouth for a lick.

She followed him willingly and waited until they were out of Ethan's earshot to start laughing. "Oh, my God. Thank you so much. I seriously thought we'd have to spend the rest of the night listening to the story of his infected toenail."

"You two are just like knights in shining armor, only without the armor and the shining," her friend said.

Randy smiled and held out a hand. "Randy."

The dark-haired girl smiled back and shook Randy's hand. "I'm Marcia."

"Hi," the redhead said, "I'm Cherry. Sherri, really, but with the red hair . . ." She trailed off and twirled some of her hair around her finger.

Bob thought it was amusing that she was playing it like she thought he didn't know who she was. Not too many guys in the school didn't know who she was, or at least didn't recognize her. She flounced around doing flips and cartwheels during every pep rally, football game, and basketball game. Hell, the way the football team had played last season, it was likely that half the stands were filled with guys paying just to watch her cheer on their sorry asses. Bob held out a hand and gave a lopsided smile. "Bob."

Cherry put her hand back into his and raised her eyebrows when he brought it to his lips and kissed it. "I know," she said. "You're very well known around school."

"Likewise," he told her. God, she was gorgeous. It was all he could do to keep his heart from pounding straight out of his chest.

Cherry notched her hair behind her ear. "Thanks. For helping us out, I mean." She motioned toward a tree that hung out over the beach ahead of them. "I see our friends over there." She sounded apologetic, almost, Bob thought. "So . . . I'll see you around?"

_Don't give too much. Don't get too excited._

Don't let her know you'd hand her the moon if you could reach it.

"Yeah," he agreed. "See you around."

Randy let out a low whistle as they watched the girls stumble across the rocky beach toward the cluster of skirts up ahead. "I think I just met my prom date."

Bob reached down and selected a small rock from the beach. "You and me both, man." He turned and hurled the rock into the river. "You and me both."


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

Chapter 4**

_I can see myself tearing up the road  
Faster than any other boy has ever gone . . . _

Chris gripped the inside handle on the passenger-side door and leaned back. "You know those guys?"

Bob pressed the brake pedal to the floor and eased the gas pedal down slightly, smiling at the sound of the gunning engine. "Not really. I think maybe they go to my school." He glanced sideways at the red Corvair that shuddered impatiently next to him, then to the traffic light that hovered above. A few more seconds, a few more seconds, and . . .green. "Hang on."

The Corvair pulled ahead, but was quickly overtaken by the mustang. "Eat my dust," Bob muttered, upshifting as they sped toward the next light. Seconds later, they sailed through it uncontested.

"Um . . . do you slow down now? Bob?" Chris's voice was tight and shaky.

Bob tapped his brother with the back of his hand and let up on the accelerator. "What's wrong? You don't trust me?"

Chris took an easier breath when the car slowed down to the speed limit. "Yeah. I mean, I trust you. I was just making sure -"

"You're a scaredy cat."

"I am not! I was just -"

"Need me to pull over so you can change your pants?" He smiled when Chris turned, frustrated, to stare out the window. "Relax, I'm just screwing with you. Here, hand me the map. I think if I make a right up ahead, it'll get us there faster."

Chris ignored his brother's waving hand and unfolded the map. "I can read a map." He studied it momentarily. "Yeah. Make a right up here."

#

Bob slammed the door shut and dropped his keys into his pocket. "You made us late, buddy." It was so easy to push that kid's buttons. Bob would have felt guilty if he didn't know that Chris ate up the attention like last night's pizza.

Chris let out an exasperated breath as he circled around the front of the car. "If you'd have turned when I said to turn, we would have -"

"Yeah, well, I'm not real big on following directions."

"You must have been fun in first grade."

The boys cut through the middle of the dirt parking lot toward the back of the wooden stands. Bob slowed just enough to allow his brother to fall into step next to him. "You want a drink or anything?"

"No. Could use a bathroom, though."

"Oh, they don't have those here. Didn't I tell you? You have to hold it until we get home."

"Shut up." Chris took a few quick steps to keep up with his brother.

"Looks like it's over there," Bob said, pointing. "You need me to come and hold your hand?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "No. Just wait here. Okay? Bob? Wait. Here."

Bob scanned the area, which was crawling with cowboys, and gave a quick nod. "Right."

"Bob!"

He looked down at Chris. "What? Just go already. I'll be around somewhere. You'll find me." Bob shook his head as Chris made his way through the crowd, looking small and timid against the rough clothes and hard boots and choking dust. The kid was still a little too attached to the apron strings, he thought. _He needs to spend a little more time with me and a little less time with His Brian-ness_.

"There you are!"

Bob turned at Randy's voice. "Hey, just got here. The little goblin is in the bathroom."

Randy handed his friend a Coke. "Here. You owe me."

Bob took the Coke and held it up to survey it. "Yeah. Big time. A whole ten cents, is it?"

"Where you been? Inflation, man. That's twenty cents right there."

"Did you get a schedule or anything?"

Randy pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and waved it in front of Bob's face. "Barrel racing, t-minus fourteen minutes."

"Great." Bob stepped back to let a lanky cowboy past. He watched the guy disappear near the back of the stands through a gate marked _Competitors_. "Some of these people are real hard-core."

Randy craned his neck to see above the throng. "We'd better find a place to sit. It's already a lot more crowded than when I got here."

As they sidled their way through the sea of hickness, Bob wondered what it was like to just pick up and move from city to city, riding horses and bulls and getting your head bashed in every now and again for good measure. Did they curse at their problems and wish away their lives, or was this what they truly wanted to be doing?

The smell of beer wafted through the crowd as the boys got closer to the arena. "Tried to get one," Randy said, nodding toward the beer tent. "The guy told me to go take a hike."

"You need to show a little more balls, man. Give 'em no reason to doubt you."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's see you give it a go before we leave, ball man."

Bob laughed. "Alright, buddy. Alright. We'll see what happens."

The floor creaked beneath them as they climbed toward the upper edges of the old wooden stands. "Look at that guy," Randy said, stopping for a second to gesture at the rodeo clown who was dancing and darting in front of a massive bull. "What could they possibly be paying that guy to be doing that?"

Bob shrugged. "I'd do it for free. Looks like a real blast." He was half sure he meant it, too.

"Yeah, you _would_ think that. Speaking of psychotic trials of manhood, did you partake in any good races on the way over?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I did." Bob swiped a few stray pieces of popcorn from his seat and sat down. "Blew away a Corvair. Didn't even come close to last week's episode -"

"With Teddy?"

"Yeah. Chris almost crapped himself, though." Bob glanced at his watch. "Should be starting soon, right?"

"Looks like they just finished up the last bull-rider. Hey, speaking of your brother, is he meeting us up here?"

"He'll find us." Bob scanned the crowd below. "The place isn't that big. I told him we'd be around somewhere."

Randy pointed in the direction they'd come from. "Is that him? Over near the entrance gate?"

Bob craned his neck. It was Chris alright, wandering aimlessly and looking like he was just short of panicking. "Good lord. You'd think he was three years old. Chris!" Bob stood up and waved his arms. "Christopher Andrew Sheldon!"

Chris turned around, gazing through the crowd, until his eyes locked on Bob, and he shouldered his way through the mass and up the steps.

"You said you'd wait down there," Chris said as he squeezed along the row to stand next to his brother.

"I said you'd find me," Bob corrected. "You're not gonna cry, are you?" He could see that Chris was almost in tears. "Because I swear to God, if you cry over this, I will not take you with me next time." Chris was a cool kid in most ways, but sometimes he still got that little whiny thing going that Brian never got over.

Chris glared toward the arena without answering.

"Well what exactly did you think would happen to you? Did you think I would leave without you?"

"No," Chris conceded, sitting down but still not taking his eyes from the men who were setting up the barrels for the next event.

"Then quit acting stupid." He couldn't stand when Brian got that snotty _I'm the center of the universe _attitude, so he sure wasn't about to let Chris get away with it. It was like he thought everybody should stop what they were doing to fixate on Brian and his problems. Bob sank down into his seat and turned to his friend. "Hey Randy," he started, "did you see the -"

"You could have just waited for me."

A rush of anger boiled up, and Bob turned to his brother with a sharp glare. "Jesus _Christ_," he shouted, "are you still harping on that? The hell with you, then. Next time I go out, you can go hunt down Brian, and the two of you can whine all day at each other about how unfair the world is to you! I'm not your damned babysitter, Chris. If you want to hang with me, you'd better figure out if you're goddamned old enough to look after yourself."

Chris backed down and lowered his gaze. "Sister Lucille says it's sinful to use the lord's name in vain."

Bob bit back a grin. Chris was trying to fix things. _Thank God one of us knows how and when._ "Oh yeah? You know what vain means? It means useless. So did I say it in vain, or did I get you praying to God that I wouldn't reach down your throat and turn you inside out?"

Chris smiled. "I guess." He gave Bob's shirt sleeve a light tug and stared back into the arena with a shrug. "I just got scared is all. I'm sorry." He took a breath before speaking so quietly, Bob had to lean closer to hear him. "Please don't leave me home next time. I'm sorry."

Bob sighed and tried to wish away the feeling that he was just one giant screw-up. He hated when that hot anger showed up over something stupid, and he hated that, even as he watched it burn, he had no idea how to put out the fire before it consumed him.

At least one person in the family was still making some attempt to be on his side. Bob took a slow breath and let it out. "Yeah, well . . . next time I'll just wait for you. Alright? It's not like I'll ever just leave without you. You were okay. You're tough, right?" He gave Chris a light punch on the shoulder and handed him the Coke. "Here. I got you a drink."


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

Chapter 5**

"God, she's gorgeous."

"Yeah, she is," Chris agreed.

"Just look at those legs." Bob shifted in his seat and tried to block out images of what those legs could do behind closed doors if they belonged to a less respectable girl.

Chris tapped the drink cup against his brother's arm. "You want the rest?"

"No, go ahead and finish it."

Randy wiped his forearm across his damp brow. "Man, it's hot in the sun. Is it supposed to be this hot in April?"

Bob stood up and cheered with the rest of the crowd when the horse raced across the line just milliseconds above the lead time. "_Damn_ she's good."

"You thinking of buying her?" Chris asked.

Bob looked down at his brother and raised his eyebrows. "Slavery's over, buddy. You can't buy people anymore."

It took a second for realization to dawn on Chris's face, and his expression quickly transformed to disgust. "The girl? You were talking about the _girl_? I thought you liked the horse."

Bob glanced down to the arena. "There was a horse?" He smiled when Chris rolled his eyes. "Hey," he said, turning to Randy, "want to head down there now? They're both finished."

Randy gave his friend an eager grin. "Let's do it."

Bob set a hand on Chris's shoulder and maneuvered him in front of himself through the crowd, many of whom were also heading off the stands. "Listen, when we get down to the – whoa!" Without warning, Chris had disappeared out from under Bob's hand and was falling forward down the steps. "Chris!"

A few of the other patrons had made a grab for Chris and broke his fall before he tumbled the rest of the way down.

"You alright, son?" a thick-bearded man asked. He steadied Chris, not letting go of his arm until the boy was sitting down.

Bob hopped across the last row of seats to land next to his brother. "You okay?"

Chris was nodding, but his face was contorted in pain and he was holding his ankle.

"There's a first aid station over by the concession stand," the man offered, using his beer cup to gesture toward the south end of the arena.

Bob nodded. "Thanks. Chris – are you okay?" He shook off the irritation that had begun to flit through his head at the realization that they might have to leave now without seeing the girls. _God almighty, what kind of selfish asshole am I?_ "What hurts?" He tried to remember which hospital was closest.

Chris took a deep breath and blew it out. "I'm okay."

"Is he alright?" Randy asked from above.

"I don't know."

"I'm okay," Chris said again. "Couple of bruises is all." He leaned into Bob's shoulder to stand, but stumbled sideways as soon as he was up.

"Yeah, you're okay," Bob said, shaking his head. _If we head west, we can get to -_

"It's just a twisted ankle. It's the one I hurt in gym class last year. It'll be fine."

"Really?" Bob watched his brother's face for signs of intense pain, but the kid looked like he was okay. _Or am I just that anxious for us to stay here?_ "Are you _sure_?"

"Yeah. It'll be okay. Besides, it's not like I'm bleeding to death or something."

If there was nothing else Bob could believe in, it was that Chris wouldn't lie to him. He nodded. "Alright. Let's head the rest of the way down. Just go slow."

With Bob and Randy on either side of him serving as crutches, Chris hobbled the rest of the way down the steps and back through the entrance gate.

"Okay, new plan," Bob huffed after they'd gotten near the gate to the competitors' entrance. He let go of his brother to stand up straight and stretch his back. "You're killing me, Chris. Here, get on." He stepped in front of the kid and squatted down to let Chris scramble onto his back. "Great. At least now we can move a little faster than Grandma on painkillers."

"Grandma's slow without painkillers," Chris said.

"And you've just reinforced my point."

Randy slowed down and scanned the entrance, where a couple of cowboys were manning the gate. "You think they'll let us in?"

"They'll let us in," Bob said. He stepped through the crowd and up to the one who had a scar stretching from his temple to his chin. "Howdy. We need to get through. Our girls are waiting on us." When it came to most people, Bob had realized years ago, you just needed to be direct to get what you wanted. If they saw you were confident, they figured you knew what you were talking about. If you hemmed and hawed and looked like you thought they had the upper hand, though, they took that upper hand and ran with it. _Everybody's got to be a dick as soon as they think they're in a position of power._

Plus, it didn't hurt that they had Tiny Tim along for the ride. People seemed to figure that if you had a kid attached to you, your motives couldn't possibly be evil.

The cowboy guard looked Bob up and down before nodding to Chris and pulling the latch off the gate. "Go on."

After the gate had closed behind them, Randy took hold of Bob's shirt and leaned in close. "_Howdy_?"

Bob smiled. "And a yee-haw, too." He tipped his chin. "Up ahead – see?"

Cherry and Marcia were hovering near one of the corrals talking to a woman who, Bob thought, might just as well have been the female version of the Marlboro Man. He gave an inward shudder.

"Nice racing out there," Randy said as they approached the girls.

Cherry and Marcia turned, and after a brief glance at the boys, their older companion finished what she was saying and left.

"Well hello there," Marcia greeted with a smile. "What're y'all city folks doin' around these parts?"

"Lookin' for some pretty cowgirls," Bob said. "Maybe you've seen them around? Look an awful lot like you two."

Cherry raised her eyebrows and gave a slight grin. "Wow, now there's a coincidence."

He gave her an easy smile and took a second to admire the way she looked stunning, even from under a thin layer of dust. Her hair, for the most part pulled into a ponytail, had taken on a rebellious edge, and wayward strands framed her face. "How you doing, Cherry?"

"Not so bad. Would've been better with a first place, but I guess you can't win them all, right?" She looked over Bob's shoulder. "Hi there."

Bob took a quick glance at his brother. "Did I mention him last time we met? The monkey on my back?"

"He's a cutie," Marcia said. "Is he for sale?"

"Name your price." Bob grinned when his brother gave him a light kick in the leg. "This is my brother, Chris. I'm not usually his personal rickshaw. He twisted his ankle coming down out of the stands."

The girls looked immediately concerned and sympathetic. "Is he alright?" Cherry asked.

"He's fine. We'll put some ice on it at Charlie's place. We're headed over there next." Perfect segue, he thought, and as usual, his best friend read his mind and took over.

"You two have any plans tonight? Charlie Dunham is having some friends over for a backyard party at seven." He gave a little shrug. "He told us to bring somebody, and since we're here, and you're here, and you both are, in fact, _somebody_ . . ."

Marcia and Cherry exchanged a look that Bob figured he could read well enough – neither of them wanted to accept without checking with the other first. By the satisfied looks on their faces, though, he figured this was a scenario they'd already discussed in some form.

"Sounds great," Marcia said. "Can you pick us up?"

Cherry pulled at the front of her shirt. "We need to clean up a little."

She was ignoring a lock of her hair that flitted across her face, so Bob reached out and notched it behind her ear, allowing his fingers to linger for an instant on her neck. "I, for one, think you look perfect." He meant it, too; she was gorgeous. "But if you'd prefer to lady yourselves up some, we'll pick you up just before seven."

Cherry gave a smile that sent a warm rush through Bob's entire body. "Sounds good." She winked at Chris. "Don't forget to bring your monkey."


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

Chapter 6**

"_If I gotta be damned, you know I wanna be damned  
Dancing through the night with you . . ."_

"You _have_ to take me. She said so."

Bob shifted his weight and hoisted his brother up higher on his back. "Yeah, I heard. I don't want to wreck all your plans for tonight, though."

"Don't have any plans."

"Well isn't that just perfect? You know, I'm not being paid to babysit tonight." Bob didn't actually care if Chris went with them – the kid was too laid back and quiet to be a problem, and in the past he'd proven to be quite the chick magnet – but it was always good fun to make him work for his prize. That's the way he saw it, Bob knew: there was no bigger deal to a fifth-grader than going to school and telling your buddies (in one of those it-was-no-big-deal tones of voice) that your high-school brother took you out to a party.

"I can pay you," Chris said, which made Bob laugh.

_The kid didn't even try to argue that I'm not babysitting him._

"Alright," Bob said, "but I'm telling you now – you keep checking that ankle. If it hurts too bad, or if it starts to swell, you're headed straight home."

They crossed the gravely patch between the concession tents toward the parking lot. "Hey," Randy said, "how about that beer, Mr. Balls?"

Bob paused and let out a sigh. "You really want me to get a beer?"

Randy shrugged. "Only because you said you could."

"Stay here," he told Chris, who slid down off his back. "Watch the master at work."

As Bob walked to the ragged beer tent and stepped into line, he tugged his wallet out of his back pocket and fingered out one of the bills. He scanned the price list, which consisted of no more than two types of beer on tap. Forty cents a cup, one size fits all.

"What can I get for you?" the vendor asked, and then stopped to give Bob a skeptical look.

"You take tips?" Bob asked, and set a five-dollar bill on the counter. The guy looked about as ragged as the tent, and twelve times as dirty. "This is all I got, but I'm only in the market for one beer, and I just don't have enough pocket space for the amount of change that would generate."

The man looked from the money to Bob and back again before giving a slow nod. "Right." He filled a cup to the brim and slid it to Bob before taking a quick glance around and pocketing the money. "Enjoy the rodeo, sir."

Randy was shaking his head and laughing as Bob approached. "Unbelievable."

Bob shoved the cup at him. "Here, take it."

"What, you're giving it away now? Since when did -"

Bob shot a subtle glance toward his brother, who was busy watching a horse being loaded into a trailer, before giving Randy a pointed look. "What the hell you talking about? You know I don't drink."

#

Chris knew it was just some fluke of the universe, Bob taking him to a party, but he didn't care. Whatever mood Bob was in that he was okay with taking Chris along was genuine, and Chris sure as heck wasn't going to argue. Any day one of his brothers treated him like more than a fly on the wall was a good day, and today was already one for the record books.

"Did that ice do anything?" They had stopped at a deli for a quick dinner and some ice. Bob turned around and leaned over the front seat to roll the bag of ice off Chris's ankle.

It felt like he'd hit it with a sledgehammer.

"It helped a lot," Chris said, hoping his voice sounded more controlled and less squeaky to everyone else than it did to his own ears. "Hardly hurts at all now." _Please don't take me home_. He took a bite of his deli sandwich for good measure. What kind of person would be eating if they were in horrible pain?

His brother's dark eyes locked with his, so Chris smiled. "It feels better. Really." A sudden image flashed through his head of what he'd look like trying to struggle his way into Charlie's house. He quickly added, "I should probably stay off of it for tonight, though. Just to be sure it doesn't twist again."

Bob sighed, then crunched up the wrappings from his sandwich and handed them to Randy in the passenger seat. "Alright, then. Let's go pick up the girls."

By the time they'd driven to both houses to pick up Cherry and Marcia, neither of whom was quite ready when they arrived, it was almost half past seven.

"Don't worry about it," Bob told Cherry, who had gotten into the front seat after Randy moved to the back seat with Chris and Marcia. "No such thing as too late for a party."

Chris loved watching Bob interact with his friends. Brian was okay, too, but in a different way. Chris had a feeling that when he was around Brian, Brian acted different than he normally did. He adjusted his behavior because of Chris. He never lost his temper or yelled or talked about anything really interesting, like how to make funny noises in the classroom without getting caught, or how to fix it so the kid who was giving you problems at school couldn't get their locker open without dynamite. Brian was safe.

Not that Bob was any kind of threat to Chris, but just knowing that Bob lived on the teetering edge that separated the civilized masses from the snarling dogs was enough to send a thrill straight through Chris. It was like Bob wasn't afraid. No matter where he was or who he was talking to, he was comfortable. He was confident. He was funny. Sometimes, he was even threatening. _Dangerous_. And he was so sure of himself, nobody doubted him. He'd proven himself enough times for them to know it wasn't just talk, either. Bob could fight like nobody's business. Chris had heard the stories. His brother was _amazing_. And he never acted different when Chris was around. He never compromised that honesty.

Chris loved watching his brother most, though, because when it came down to it, Chris was absolutely nothing like Bob; and what he would have given for some of that confidence and some of that draw.

Sure enough, when they got to Charlie's and were greeted at the front door by another of Bob's friends, the first thing Chris noticed from his perch on Bob's back was that as soon as they stepped into the house, everyone's attention turned to his brother. "Hey, there's the man!" "Fashionably late, huh?" "Didj'a hear what happened after gym yesterday?" "Come on out back and I'll show you where the food is." All of the people who had been sitting around chatting quietly and looking awkward just came to _life_.

It was as if the party had been waiting, stagnated, holding its breath, until Bob arrived.

"Hey, Charlie," Bob said, "got a place I can stash the kid? We brought some ice for his ankle."

Charlie led the way to the patio, which stretched across the back of the yard and circled the kidney-shaped swimming pool. Beyond the concrete was a soft green stretch of thick grass surrounded by tall hedges.

They stopped in front of a cushioned lounge chair. "Look like a good spot?" Charlie asked.

Bob slid Chris off his back. "Looks fine. You want anything?"

Chris gripped the arm of the chair, hopped himself around so his back was to it, and sank down onto the cushion.

"Give the kid a beer!" somebody shouted, prompting a wave of laughter from a few guys who were sitting nearby. It seemed like the party was moving outside, where the lights around the pool – as well as inside of it – gave a warm glow to the early spring evening. The sun was down, but just barely, and a few stars had blinked their way through the steel blue sky.

"Can I have a Coke?"

Bob disappeared into the house, and Chris was in heaven – Mom never let him have soda when it wasn't a birthday or special occasion, and here he was getting his second one of the day.

One of the three girls who had been chatting with the boys in the group next to him looked over, her gaze resting on the bag of ice that Chris was adjusting on his ankle. "Did you get hurt?"

"My ankle," Chris said. "I fell."

"Aw. Just give a holler if you need anything, okay?" She gave a warm smile and turned back to her friends.

"Thanks." Chris settled back to watch the party. It wasn't exactly what he'd expected – things were real low key, with small groups of friends standing or sitting around chatting and laughing – but it wasn't disappointing. If nothing else, it was a hundred times better than sitting around at home watching Ed Sullivan or something.

"Here."

Chris squinted up at Bob and took the drink he was offering. "Thanks."

"I'll be around," Bob said, his attention already away from Chris and on the party around them.

"Okay. I'll stay here."

Above, the sky gradually melted from dark blue to nearly black, and Chris concentrated for a bit on finding the constellations he had learned about in his astronomy book. He located the easy one – Orion's belt – almost immediately, but couldn't remember where the north star was supposed to be.

More lights were turned on as the night got darker, and an occasional cool breeze swept across the patio. Chris gave a shiver and rolled the ice off his ankle, which sent a shock of pain through his leg. Until then it had been a dull pain, but the movement had intensified it astronomically. Chris took a few slow, deep breaths until the pain tapered back down to a dull ache.

Somebody had turned some music on in the house and moved a speaker up to one of the windows, and an impromptu dance floor was created by moving some of the poolside chairs off to the side. Once that happened, most of the kids at the party drifted over to that end of the patio to either watch the dancing, or join in. Nobody had looked in Chris's direction since the girl told him to holler if he needed something.

Truth be told, Chris was kind of glad he was stuck sitting in a chair. He couldn't imagine what he would have done if left to wander around a high-school party, because by now Bob was off socializing somewhere. He would have gotten annoyed real quick if Chris had started following him around like a little kid holding his mama's dress.

Chris might have been a little naïve, but he wasn't stupid. He knew how it worked, being the youngest. He knew what to do to keep a low profile just to be allowed to be included.

By the time that Coke had gone through Chris and he'd about decided he was going to explode if he didn't get up and find a bathroom, Bob had disappeared completely. With no small amount of effort, Chris hobbled his way into the kitchen, where the table was surrounded by girls and guys playing cards.

"Need a hand there, buddy?" one of the guys asked, glancing down toward Chris' foot.

"Looking for the bathroom."

The guy stood up. "Come on, I'll show you. Looks like you could use an arm to lean on. You sure you're okay?"

Chris nodded and took hold of the guy's arm, giving an inward sigh of relief. At least he was done hopping on one foot for the moment. "Yeah. Have you, uh, seen Bob around? Bob Sheldon?"

They sifted through the small crowd that was blocking the kitchen doorway and moved into a tiled hallway. "Not in a while. Why, you here with him?"

"Yeah. He's my brother." Chris stared at the tiles below and concentrated on not wetting his pants and on not screaming out in pain every time his foot made contact with the floor.

"No kidding? You're Bob's brother?" The guy sounded really impressed. "Huh. Well, nice to meet you, Bob Sheldon's Injured Brother. I'm Ken." He nodded toward the door they'd stopped in front of. "Here's the bathroom. I'll wait here so you don't have to crawl back out there. You can join in the card game, if you want. Till your bro gets back, anyway."

Chris smiled. "Thanks." It wasn't until he got into the bathroom that he let himself grit his teeth and let out a low groan. After taking care of the more urgent issue – emptying his bladder – Chris sank onto the floor against the wall and gingerly lifted the cuff of his pant leg.

"Shoot," he whispered. "Bob is going to kill me."


	8. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

Chapter 7**

"_Nothing ever grows in this rotten old hole,  
And everything is stunted and lost . . ."_

Bob sighed, rolled toward the edge of his bed, and smiled at the backlit navy curtains. _Amazing_. She was amazing. Beautiful, smart, funny . . . amazing. And she smelled good. _And_ she seemed to get everything he talked to her about – school, parents, friends; she was easier to talk to than any girl he'd ever dated.

It was like there was no barrier between them. She hadn't put up that mask that girls usually carried around, the one that only let you see what they wanted you to see. She was open. She was vulnerable.

She was _gorgeous_.

Bob flipped the covers back, sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. God, she was gorgeous. Those green eyes, that red hair . . .

"Bob?"

He sighed again and pushed his hand through his hair. "Yes, Mom?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were awake." There was a pause, and he knew that she was standing there on the other side of the door wondering how to smooth things over. How to make last night seem like less of a big deal. How to make everything right again.

"I'm up," he called, trying to release her. "I'll be downstairs soon."

He waited a moment, until her footsteps signaled her departure, before standing up and picking a white t-shirt off the floor. Nice way to kill the mood, he thought. Images of The Judge and his little hissy fit had pretty much wiped out the glorious mood he'd woken up to.

The bedroom was a mess. He picked around for a minute before digging up a pair of khakis that didn't smell bad. As he tugged them on, and then wandered up the hallway for some mouthwash, the events from the night before replayed in his head, and he was tense and angry all over again. Angry with The Judge. Angry with Chris.

Angry with himself.

It was his own damn fault for being brainless enough to trust one of the males in his family. That didn't mean he was taking all the blame, though. No way would he stand aside and watch Chris follow Brian and The Judge along their path of self-involvement.

He padded down the stairs and stepped onto the cool tile floor of the front foyer, where Anna stood primping in front of the mirror. He wondered vaguely what she was doing at their house at ten in the morning. Her belly was actually protruding now, he noticed. It was strange, trying to imagine his sister being a mom. It was already almost a year since she'd gotten married, yet it still seemed to him like she was just playing house.

She didn't notice him until he passed behind her toward the kitchen. "Bobby! You scared me, sneaking around like that."

He paused to turn around. "Wasn't sneaking. You headed out somewhere?" She was wearing a pink skirt that was nearly lost under the maternity top that tented her figure.

"Mother and I are going to the flower show." She set a hand on her belly and took a moment to look from Bob's disheveled hair, to his rumpled clothes, to his bare feet, and smiled. "Nice outfit."

Shrugging, he turned back toward the kitchen. "Just got up. Anybody make coffee?" Bob wasn't real fond of coffee, at least the taste of it, but when he was in a mood that needed changing, the stuff turned into the ambrosia of the gods – headache gone, vision clearer, and sapped energy rejuvenated.

Anna followed along with an exaggerated waddle and sank into a chair with a great sigh and a grunt, as if she were only weeks from delivery. Bob hated to think what she'd be like by then, if she was feeling this indisposed just halfway through her pregnancy.

"You know," she said in that irritating, I-think-I-have-a-right-to-comment-on-your-life tone of voice, "you need to think before you go upsetting Mother and Father the way you did last night. It was very irresponsible of you."

He opened the refrigerator, pulled out the orange juice, and took a swallow out of the container, mostly because he knew it would make her crazy. She had a real thing about germs. "Sorry, I don't remember you being here last night."

She bit down on her bottom lip and stared out the back window, annoyed. "Bobby, you'd better start getting serious. Maybe it's different when just you're involved, but this time you put Chris at risk."

If she had been anybody but his pregnant sister, he was sure he would have thrown her up against the wall and put her teeth through the back of her head. Instead, he slammed the orange juice onto the counter with enough force to splatter bits of pulp onto the granite and make Anna jump. "At _risk_? He sprained his _ankle_. He told me he was fine! If you honestly think he was at risk, you'd better seal that kid of yours in a box as soon as it comes out, because it fu -" He cut himself off and took a breath. It wasn't worth making himself look like a loose canon in front of his own sister just to make a point that she wouldn't get. "Never mind."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Chris slinking into the kitchen. Well, as slinking as one could get while on crutches.

Anna set her jaw and gave Bob one more death glare before turning to Chris and going all mushy sappy. "Hi baby, how're you feeling?" She stood up and did more harm than good to his awkward crutch-walking by trying to guide him to a chair. "Just sit down, honey. I'll get you whatever you want for breakfast." She went about scurrying through the kitchen gathering bowls, flour, and eggs.

As if she could cook.

Bob was sure that all three of them in the room knew that Anna's prime directive at that moment had nothing to do with feeding her little brother. It was all about showing Bob how badly he'd put everybody out by letting Chris go eight hours with a sprained ankle and no official medical attention. _Half my family_, Bob thought, _are manipulative hypocrites_.

Chris stared at the table, ears burning. He wasn't stupid.

Bob let out an unamused laugh before putting the orange juice back in the refrigerator. "I'll be in the shower."

#

Hair dripping, he wrapped the towel loosely around his waist and made a damp trail along the hallway to his bedroom. With one foot, he kicked the door shut behind him.

He'd barely taken two steps before there was a light tap on the door. Bob reached back, turned the knob, pulled it open, and then walked to his open closet without looking to see that it was Chris who had knocked.

He already knew.

If nothing else, Chris was predictable. He couldn't stand knowing that somebody was mad at him, whether or not it was his fault. It was like he couldn't quite put his whole focus on anything else until he'd set right the balance of emotional tension in his life.

"What is it?" Bob asked, glancing back at his brother.

Chris took an audible breath and shifted his crutches around like he wasn't sure whether to set them down and get comfortable, or hang onto them in case he needed to make a quick exit.

He chose to lean against the end of the dresser, holding both crutches in one hand. "I'm sorry," he said.

Bob selected a dark blue t-shirt from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. He made sure to keep his voice even and calm when he spoke. When somebody already knew you were pissed, and knew they were at fault, yelling was way less effective than becoming the embodiment of the calm before the storm. "You said you were fine."

"I know. I just . . . I thought it was okay at first -"

"No you didn't." Bob didn't buy that one for a second, and by the look on Chris' face, he didn't even believe himself.

"Look, I'm _really_ sorry. Please? I didn't think . . ." Chris trailed off, apparently struggling to vocalize where he'd gone wrong.

Bob set a pair of pants on top of the shirt and looked at Chris. "What? You didn't think what? That anybody would eventually notice your ankle was the size of a cantaloupe? That The Judge wouldn't lay it all on me? That this wouldn't be something I'd be getting rammed down my throat for the next five years, every time he needs to remind me what a failure he thinks I am?"

Chris shrank back a little, but didn't take his eyes off his brother. When he spoke, his voice, his tone, his _demeanor_, were small. "I'm sorry."

Bob figured maybe that voice should have tugged at something inside of him. Softened him up. Instead, it infuriated him.

Of all the stuff that belonged to him, the thing Bob took the most pride in was his body. It was the one possession that was undoubtedly his to do with as he pleased, that nobody else could lay claim to. It wasn't something he intended to be ashamed of, ever.

He took a step away from the bed and dropped the towel from his waist, letting it fall to the floor.

Chris, who was naturally modest and still at that age when even the thought of showers after gym made him go red, gaped for just an instant before averting his eyes.

Bob knew it, from some ancient place deep down inside – there was something primal in the unspoken message his gesture had sent: I am stronger than you. Strong, confident, unafraid. Even _naked_, I dominate.

Chris was practically squirming.

"Look at me," he said, and, cringing, Chris did. "You lied to me. Do you get that? You lied to me so you could get your way." With the strut of a soldier in full uniform, he walked over to stand in front of Chris and opened a top dresser drawer to take out a pair of underwear. "You know there's a lot of things you can get away with, with me. Lying isn't one of them. Now get out of my room."

Without another word, Chris gathered his crutches, turned, and hobbled out of the room.

Bob closed the door behind him.

* * *

Thanks very much to HK for the suggestions on the previous chapters. I'll be posting the next chapter before the end of the week.


	9. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

Chapter 8**

"_Oh baby, you're the only thing in this whole world  
That's pure and good and right . . ."_

"So what did Dr. Peterson say about Chris's ankle?"

Bob flicked on the blinker and slowed down. "He said to elevate it and put ice on it."

Randy gave a slow nod. "Which is what we did."

"Yep."

"Okay. Then why -"

"Don't even ask. My family is nuts." Bob had a few other choice words for a couple of them, but he wasn't in the mood to mull over that right now. It was spring, he had a new girl, and all was right with the world. With this kind of a high going, the last thing he needed was to get bogged down by thoughts of family. _Screw 'em all._

It was almost four in the afternoon, and the parking lot at Jay's was already over half full. A lot of the kids who showed up after school during the week and then again on Friday and Saturday nights retreated to Jay's by late afternoon on Sundays, after the early dinners were over, but before they were expected to be home for Sunday curfews.

"Is that Andy over there?" Randy asked, pointing.

Bob eased the car into a spot and cut the engine before squinting in the direction Randy was pointing. "Looks like it. Come on."

Half the kids who were leaning against their cars smoking or goofing off called out greetings to Bob and Randy as they passed. "Place is hopping tonight," Randy observed.

Bob grinned. "Spring fever." There was that certain smell in the air when you know that you've definitely passed your last shivering winter day. "Hey, Andy." Bob clapped their friend on the shoulder. "Charlie here?" Andy and Charlie had been buddies since elementary school.

Tall, lean, and lanky, Andy was one of those guys who was always in a good mood and never stopped smiling. True to form, he gave Bob and Randy a wide grin when as they stepped into the group he'd been chatting with. "Haven't seen him yet. His grandma got taken over to the hospital this morning, though, so that might be tying him up."

Randy pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and set it between his lips. "Anything serious?"

"Nah. Something about a fractured wrist. His dad's out of town, though, so Chal's got to be around to ferry his mom and sisters to the hospital and back."

"That was a swinging party he had last night," said Tom. He wasn't a guy Bob normally hung out with, but he was good buddies with Andy, which said something about him. "You guys were there, right?"

Bob took the cigarette that Randy passed him. "Yeah, we were there." He looked across the small group at Frank Greenbaum when he laughed. "What?"

Frank gave a slight shrug. "You were there when you were there, right?"

A knowing chuckle went around the group, and Bob smiled. "Yeah, okay. I guess I went for a little walk at some point." He'd just been thinking about taking a look around the parking lot to see if Cherry was there, but figured that would look too obvious now. Instead, he took a slow drag from the cigarette and tapped away the ashes.

Andy, who was leaning against the car next to him, gave Bob's arm a nudge with his elbow. "Anything you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Sheldon?"

The rest of the guys waited with goofy smiles plastered on their faces, like a bunch of cartoon hyenas.

"Nothing that any of you losers would be interested in."

A general groan of dissention and laughter rang though the group.

"Come on," David said. "You were with _Cherry Valance_, man. If what I've heard is true, you should have one hell of a story to tell."

Bob didn't particularly care if David had been kidding or joking or serious or whatever. He didn't even need to waste time pondering the comment.

A tense silence penetrated the air when Bob, good-natured expression wiped from his face, handed his cigarette back to Randy and took a step forward. "What'd you say?"

David took a breath and gave his head a little shake, and a couple of the guys tried to step in and defuse the situation. "Hey, man, he was just kidding around," Frank said with a slight smile. "Right?" He looked to David.

Bob was already halfway into the circle and shaking Frank's lightly restraining hand off his arm. "David? You have something to say about Cherry?" David was okay for the most part, but the boy just didn't know when to keep his damn mouth shut. "You have some rumors you want to spread around?"

David was trying to look cool, but he was licking his lips and shrugging and bobbing his head around too much. "No, man, come on. I was just kidding around." He took a step back when Bob came face-to-face with him.

Bob pressed a finger into David's chest. "She is a decent girl. You even _think_ otherwise, and there's gonna be a problem between us."

If any unsavory rumors had been started about Cherry's social life, Bob knew they'd just been stopped in their tracks. He'd go to hell and back before he saw the reputation of a girl he cared about dragged through the mud.

#

Bob ran his fingers lightly along the bottom curve of the steering wheel and wondered if his fifth-grade issues and exploits had sounded so ridiculous to the rest of his family when he was eleven. It was kind of funny. He'd forgotten some of the stupid stuff they'd worried about. "And what's supposed to happen to Andy if he doesn't pony up the money?"

Chris stretched his legs out in front of him, under the glove box. "Mitch said he'll give him a wedgie in the middle of the cafeteria."

"Right. A wedgie." _The elementary school equivalent of a fistfight_. Andy was probably shaking in his britches. Bob leaned against the door and sighed. He had taken to driving Chris to school in the morning after seeing him struggling to get his hobbling body on the bus, crutches and books and papers shifting wildly, threatening to spill to the ground. Now, today, there had been an accident up the road some, and they were stuck waiting until it was cleared. "You listening to this song?" he asked.

"Not really."

Bob reached over and fiddled with the knob until he found a news station. It wasn't what he listened to when his buddies were in the car, but if it was just him, or him and Chris, he kind of liked the soothing process of absorbing the goings-on of the world. There was a certain intimacy about hearing the news in the car, with those two or three DJs chatting personably and adding in their own take on life at large.

"I'm, uh . . . I'm going to visit Brian this weekend. With Mom and Dad."

Bob leaned back and stretched. "I hear the price of tea in China is stable."

Chris sighed audibly and shuffled his books around on his lap. "Can I ask you something?"

"When have I ever said you couldn't ask me something?" He eased his foot off the brake as the line rolled forward a few more yards.

"How come you hate Brian so much?"

"I didn't say I would answer, but I never said you couldn't ask." He looked over at Chris, who had turned to stare out the window. "Look, I don't hate Brian. I just don't like the way he is sometimes." _Most of the time._

Chris took a moment to consider, as if he were trying to decide whether or not to jump into the icy water, before finally speaking again. "Like what? How is he?"

Bob allowed the car to drift forward a bit more. "Do you remember anything about Grandpa?"

Chris gave him the kind of exaggeratedly befuddled look that only a confused preadolescent boy can give.

Bob waved his hand in a small circle. "Well?"

"A little, I guess. The cigars, mostly. When I smell cigars, it makes me remember sitting next to him on the couch one time. I think it was Thanksgiving or Christmas."

It seemed like a sin to Bob that his brother had only vague memories of the man who had left such an impact on him. "He was a stand-up guy. Knew what he wanted and where he wanted to be, but never stepped on anybody to get there." His own memories came trickling in, and he gave a wistful grin. "And yeah, he liked his cigars."

The line of cars ahead of them started moving at a more steady clip, and they passed the spot where the accident had been.

"So?" Chris asked. "What about, you know? What about Brian?" His body tensed as if he were getting ready to jump out of Bob's reach.

Bob shook his head. "Planning on heading out the window? Okay, one of the things Grandpa used to tell me all the time was 'be true to yourself'." _If I had a dime for every time Grandpa said that_ . . . . "You know – if you're going to do something, do it because it's who you are, not because it's who somebody else wants you to be." He took a breath and tried to gather his words. "You know how you felt bad about lying to me the other day?"

Chris nodded.

"And there's stuff I've done that I feel bad about. Lies I've told that make me feel sick about myself. That's because it goes against who I am. You feel bad when you're not being true to yourself. You know what I mean? But Brian – Brian doesn't feel bad when he tells a lie. If it gets him what he wants, he doesn't give a damn who he has to step on, because that's who Brian is." He pulled up in front of the school and turned to face Chris. "And that's what I don't like about Brian."

#

Frank leaned back on the couch and unwrapped the candy he'd taken from the crystal dish on the coffee table. "So tell me, Bob – when were you planning on asking Miss Valence to the prom? You've been dating for what, two weeks now?"

Bob took a seat across from Frank. "This weekend. You asking Susan?"

"Absolutely." He popped the candy into his mouth and set his feet on the coffee table. "Where the hell's Randy? I thought he was supposed to be here by six."

"I'm right here." Out of breath, Randy tugged his book bag off his shoulder and dropped onto the chair next to Bob. "Sorry. Had to listen to the lecture on 'things we don't do when we borrow the family car'."

Frank laughed. "Buddy, you need to get yourself a car already."

Randy shook his head and unzipped the bag. "Tell me about it. Maybe you can give my dad a call and plead my case for me."

"So what're we doing with this project?" Bob liked hanging out with his friends, but he wasn't so hyped about having a school project hanging over him. "Let's get this thing over with."

One hour and twelve hand-written pages later, the boys were each engrossed in the library books Randy had brought over. "You guys want something to drink?" Bob asked.

Randy waved a hand without looking up. "I'm good."

"Got any beer?" Frank asked.

"Not for you." Bob leaned back and stretched, feeling the kinks from his slumped position work themselves out of his back. He didn't realize Chris had come home until he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He'd been off the crutches for almost a week, so his movements were back to being deft and silent.

Apparently, Chris hadn't noticed them all sitting in the den that adjoined the kitchen. He had crept into the kitchen like he was waiting for the devil to leap out at him. _Why is he looking at the kitchen stairs like that?_ There were two stairways that led to the second floor – the fancy one in the front foyer, and the small one that went up from the kitchen. Bob watched his brother for several seconds, trying to decipher his behavior.

Chris pulled something out of the freezer and set it against his face, then crept toward the stairs.

Bob waited until he was just setting foot on the bottom stair before speaking. "Chris."

You would have thought he'd been jabbed by a hot poker. He didn't turn around, though. "Yeah?"

Now, that was unusual. Chris normally took great pains to ease himself into the room when Bob had friends over. He was a master of subtlety. Now, though, he looked like the starting gun was about to go off any second. His entire body was tensed, ready to dart up the stairs.

Bob stood up and walked to the wide doorway that separated the rooms. "Where you headed?"

Chris shrugged. "Upstairs."

There was something about his voice – something tight and scratchy.

"Come over here."

After a moment of apparent indecision, Chris turned, head down, and walked to the kitchen table.

Getting impatient, Bob crossed the space between them in three steps. "What's going on?"

Chris shrugged. "Nothing." He took a quick breath that turned into a sniffle.

Bob set his hand under his brother's chin and tilted his face upward. A rush of anger shot through him at the bruise on Chris' cheek and the look in his eyes. "What the hell?"

#

It took just over half an hour for Bob to get most of the story out of Chris.

He'd been at a friend's house working on homework after school. They'd had dinner together, but his friend's dad wasn't home by the time Chris was supposed to leave. They only had one car. Chris said he wanted to try taking the bus. After all, his friend took the bus all the time. He figured it would be fun.

Only, he'd gotten on the wrong bus.

It wasn't until he was well into the north side that he realized his mistake. Only, instead of just staying on the bus, not realizing it would just circle back around eventually, he got intimidated by the people who had been getting on, and got off.

Once he was standing there in the covered bus stop, he had a chance to read the schedule more closely and figure out what he needed to do to get home. It wasn't so bad. In fact, it was pretty easy to figure out.

So, he sat down to wait the twenty minutes for the next bus.

He figured it was probably less than ten minutes later that the guys showed up. They had slicked back hair and grubby, tough-looking clothes – dirty jeans and leather jackets and white t-shirts. Typical greasers. He tried to ignore them, but once they'd spotted him, the comments started: his clothes; his hair; his shoes. They said things about his mom, too, half of which he didn't completely understand.

And still, he tried to ignore them.

Finally, they just took him by his shirt collar and hauled him over to the sidewalk. There were no houses around, just old brick and concrete buildings. No cars went by. There had been nobody to help. Nobody to hear if he yelled. So he'd stayed quiet, even when one of them gave him a hard slap in the cheek.

Chris' hair drooped onto his forehead. "I didn't know what to do," he whispered.

Bob set a hand on his brother's shoulder and gave it a slight shake. "Why didn't you call me from Raymond's house? Why didn't you call me to come and pick you up? I was home. You _knew_ I was home." Even he could hear the desperate edge to his voice, willing this all to not ever have happened.

Chris stole a glance at Bob. "I just wanted to ride the bus. I wanted to do it myself."

Bob let out a frustrated breath. Chris had picked a hell of a time to decide he wanted to exhibit his independence. "So they hit you. What else happened? What else did these guys do to you?" It was all he could do to contain the shaking rage that was building inside of him.

At his brother's subtle glance toward Randy and Frank, who'd both been listening intently, Bob realized he needed to get Chris alone to get him to talk about whatever they'd done. "Come on," he said. "Let's go upstairs."

* * *

Thanks very much to all who reviewed. I've been away from the computer for most of the past week and haven't gotten to reply yet to your comments, but they are much appreciated :).


	10. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

Chapter 9**

"_And wherever you are and wherever you go,  
There's always gonna be some light . . ."_

He wanted to put his hand through the fucking _wall_. No, what he really wanted was to put it through those guys' faces. Every one of them. _Repeatedly_.

By the time Chris was done describing his ordeal, he was unsuccessfully fighting back sobs, and Bob was shaking.

Bob gritted his teeth. "I will kill them. I swear to God, Chris, I will find them all and put their fucking _heads_ through the grinder!" He slammed a fist into the dresser, where his fingers then wrapped around a glass knick-knack that met an untimely fate, shattering against the far wall.

Chris, unaccustomed to the sound of profanity, winced at the string of curses his brother spit out.

Bob took a slow breath, clenched his fists, and closed his eyes. _I will kill them._

He opened his eyes again to look at Chris, whose face gave away everything he was feeling – fear, shame, humiliation. Bob took one more slow breath to clear his senses and regain control. "I'm sorry. You okay?"

Chris nodded.

"Here, lay down." Bob pulled the covers of Chris' bed back, let his brother crawl under, and set the ice pack on his cheek. "Just keep that there. Okay? Stay here, and keep that on your face for a while. Mom should be home soon. Just pretend you're asleep if she looks in. And when she does see the bruise, tell her you got hit by a ball in gym class. She doesn't need to know about this." More importantly, Bob knew, Chris didn't need to repeat his whole story to a police officer. He'd melt into the floor if he were forced to tell it all again to a stranger. Besides, even if the cops found the guys, they wouldn't do much more than toss them in a cell for a few weeks.

Chris wrapped his hand around Bob's arm. "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah. I'm going out to find those guys."

Panic flitted across Chris' eyes, and he nearly started crying again. "What if they come here? What if -"

"Chris, they don't know where you live. Right? They have no idea who you are." _But they'll know who I am, that's for damn sure._

"Don't leave."

Bob tilted his head back and sighed. "I'll tell you what – Frank will stay here. He'll stay here until Mom gets home. Okay?"

Chris considered before nodding. "Don't tell them. Don't tell anybody what those guys did."

A wave of gentle nostalgia replaced Bob's anger for an instant. Chris was still a baby, as far as he was concerned. If Bob had his way, his younger brother would never have to know how horribly cruel the world could be. "Alright," he said, pulling the covers up further. "I won't tell anyone."

Bob left Frank to watch whatever was on TV, and he and Randy picked up David and Charlie before heading up to the north side.

"What's Frank gonna tell your folks when they get home?" Charlie asked.

"That your car broke down and we went to give you a lift from the shop. Chris gave me real good descriptions of these guys," Bob said. "There were three of them."

David leaned forward from the back seat. "What'd these assholes do to him?"

Bob, in the passenger seat because Randy had decided it would be better for Bob to look out for the guys, turned sideways. "They hit him. And they humiliated him." He closed his eyes, wishing the images Chris had put there could be burned away forever from both their minds. "They scared the shit out of him, is what they did." He opened his eyes and turned to his buddies. "And I swear, when we find these guys, we are going to put the fucking fear of _God_ into them."

#

"Hey, man, we'll find them today."

Bob nodded to Randy, who slid his tray onto the lunch table and sat down. "Yeah. We will." They hadn't gotten home until almost midnight the night before, with no luck. He wasn't giving up that easy, though. Bob planned on walking to the ends of the earth to find those greasy bastards if he had to.

"Frank said he can't come today, but he'll be around tomorrow if we need him."

Bob took a sip of his milk and nodded as he stared, unfocused, into the sea of students whose chronic chatter filled the lunchroom with a noise you could hardly even brand as language. He was almost glad they hadn't found them last night. Now, he was focused. Now, it wasn't just raw anger driving him. It'd had time to fester. He could almost see himself tearing through those idiots, splattering their blood and making them cry. He'd even squeezed in some extra time in the weight room, just to get the adrenaline pumping full force.

He twisted the onyx ring on his right hand. It was the first ring his grandfather had ever made. The other two were nice – more ornate, in fact – but this was the one that tied in directly with his memories. Bob could still picture it on his grandpa's great hand, the smooth and steady hand of an artisan.

The stone was smooth as glass, but the metal edges were crisp, and the corners sharp. Bob had wondered about that ring many times – what Grandpa had been thinking about when he made it; whether it meant more to him than all the other jewelry he'd crafted afterward; whether he, like Bob, had stared at it when he was bored, catching the sunrays and watching the blackness inside light up like a rainbow. Now, Bob had a new question running through his head as he stared at that ring.

Had Grandpa ever ripped somebody's face apart with it?

#

They'd all cut their last two class periods to get an early start. Chances were, the guys who had harassed Chris weren't in school, anyway.

That had been three hours ago.

"How about them?" Frank asked, pointing.

Bob scanned the group of greasers who stood, smoking, watching the mustang with wary eyes as it slowed and passed by. "No. It's not them." He could almost picture two of them, just from Chris' detailed descriptions. Their jackets were important. It wasn't like they'd have a stockpile of jackets at home to choose from, or that they'd be sharing their outerwear with each other. He knew he'd recognize them when he saw them.

"You know," David said in a hesitant voice, "it's getting kind of late. Close to dinnertime."

Bob pounded a fist sideways into the door, prompting instant silence from everyone in the car. _We will not stop until we find them_, he wanted to say. _Chris did not deserve to be hurt the way they hurt him. This is not something he can ever go back from._

But Chris was _his_ brother, and his friends had already put aside their lives to help him out. How much was he supposed to ask of them? Were they supposed to drive around for weeks, searching for three specific greasers on the streets of the city? What were the odds?

Bob leaned his head back and sighed. "Just find one. Any one. Next greaser we come across is gonna be our example, so we'd better make it count, boys. These people will learn that it is a _bad idea_ to mess with us."

#

As luck would have it, the next greaser they came across was alone. Bob would have preferred if there had been two of them, just to make the point stick more, but one was good enough.

The kid didn't realize at first that they were trailing them. He cut across the street and stepped into an abandoned lot.

"What's he looking for?" Randy asked.

The kid was kicking around in the grass, bending over every so often for a closer look and then moving on.

"Maybe this is where he hunts for his dinner," Charlie suggested.

David laughed. "Rats 'n snakes."

"Enough," Bob said. "This isn't a goddamned joke." He watched the kid for another few seconds as Randy inched the car forward. "Let's go. Before he finds his gun or whatever the hell he stashed here."

Randy pulled up to the curb just past the kid. The four of them were out of the car and surrounding him before he had a chance to run.

"Taking a walk?" Bob asked, picking a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. Adrenaline surged through him, along with thoughts of Chris crying into his hands, face bruised and trust shattered. Bob smiled. He never felt more focused, and the world never looked more vivid, than just before he got into a fight. As counterintuitive as it was, he never felt so calm.

The kid, dark hair hanging almost to his eyes, put his hands in his jacket pockets and didn't say a word.

"It's a nice afternoon for a walk. David, don't you think it's a nice afternoon for a walk?"

His boys all chuckled. "Yeah," David said. "Nice day for all kinds of things."

_The kid wants us to think he's cool as a cucumber, but he's shaking in his boots._ Bob pulled a lighter out of his back pocket, lit the cigarette, and took in a lungful of smoke, then blew it out slowly. He had to give the kid credit – he did look tough. If it was just him and that kid in a dark alley, he'd probably be counting the odds even, even with the kid being smaller. He was probably agile. He probably had good instincts. And he'd probably been getting in street fights half his life.

Randy made eye contact and raised his eyebrows, so Bob grinned. "I was thinking, that far end of the lot looks like a fine place for a stroll. What'd you think, Frank? Should we head over there with our little friend and get to know each other better?"

The kid tried to make his getaway at that point. Again, Bob had to give him credit: even scared, he'd figured out who the weak link was. He shot past David, who'd been behind him no less, before Charlie tackled him to the sidewalk and got him in a full nelson. Bob walked over to stand in front of them. "Don't. Do. That." He held his lit cigarette a quarter inch from the kid's cheek and watched his eyes go wide. "Again."

Even after that, the kid put up a struggle. Charlie was way bigger and stronger, but the kid almost got away from him twice. The first time, Charlie just wasn't holding him tight enough. After pulling him down by the arm, David gave the kid a solid punch in the face that sent blood gushing before passing him back to Charlie; but even then, he managed to wriggle out of his denim jacket and almost got away again. Clearly frustrated by that point, Charlie just got mean and held him so tight, with one arm twisted back at an unnatural angle and a chunk of his hair clenched in Charlie's fist, that the kid nearly squealed.

Between the four of them, they managed to manhandle him back across the street and deep into the empty lot. There were enough trees and tall grass so that nobody in the houses across the street should be able to tell what was going on, or hear it – if they even cared that one of their own was getting the crap beat out of him.

Bob pulled out a switchblade, flicked it open, and held the knife over the flame of his lighter. "Remember," he told Randy in a lowered voice as they watched David and Charlie start working the kid over. "The fear of God."


	11. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

Three for the price of one today :). Hope you enjoy.

**

* * *

Chapter 10**

"_And nothing really rocks,  
And nothing really rolls,  
And nothing's ever worth the cost . . ."_

Cherry's fingers slid down Bob's arm and played circles on his knuckles. "What happened to your hand?"

He took a quick look at it and flexed his fingers, picturing that kid's face once again under his fist. "Tripped on the way up the steps this morning and landed on it." He gave her a sheepish grin and shrugged. "I was late for algebra."

She brought his hand up to her mouth and laid a gentle kiss on it. "You need to be more careful."

"I guess so." He rested a hand on Cherry's hip when she leaned back against her locker. The soft bottom of her sweater brushed against his thumb. "So, uh . . . you have any plans the weekend after next?"

She smiled. "I don't know. Do I?"

"Guess it depends on how much you like prom." He smiled and ran his fingers lightly against her side so she giggled and wrapped her hand around his. "So?" he asked. "Are you interested in going to the prom?"

Cherry gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm interested."

"Great! I'll go let Ethan know; I think he's in physics." Bob turned and started to walk away.

Cherry laughed along with Bob and pulled him back to her. "Don't you dare. Besides, I'm sure Ethan already has a date by now."

"You're saying I'm slow on the draw?"

She grinned. "Yeah."

Her lip gloss shimmered like water in the sun. He wanted to kiss her _so bad_. He started to lean forward, slowly.

"Hey there, mister." Cherry put a slightly restraining hand on his chest as she glanced both ways along the hallway, where a few students were still lingering. "I'm afraid that kind of thing will have to wait until later. You know, out of the way of prying eyes."

He smiled and sighed deeply. "Yeah. Later. Late later, or soon later?"

Cherry gave him another smile that sent a rush through him. "Soon enough. Are you headed over to Jay's after school?"

"Why, yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

"And you're taking me with you?"

"That was my plan."

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, you never know when a little thing like traffic or a wrong turn will make you ten minutes late."

He had another urge to lean down and kiss her, but restrained himself. It could wait until they were alone in the car, if that was what she wanted. "Indeed," he said, and she smiled at his mocking attempt at loftiness. "Then I'll meet you by my car after school, and we'll plan to be ten minutes late to Jay's." With one finger, he traced the shadow on her face made by her hair. "I'll see you later, Cherry."

He didn't need to look back to know that her eyes were still on him by the time he got to the end of the hallway.

But he did.

#

It wasn't until last period, sitting through American History, that Bob noticed the blood.

For a minute, it didn't occur to him what it was. He'd been propping his head against one hand, elbow on the desk, while twisting the other hand slightly in the afternoon sun to watch Grandpa's ring explode with color. That was when he saw it – there was something smeared on one side of the ring, partly on the stone and partly on the gold. It was a slight brownish smear. He licked his opposite thumb and wiped at the streak, and it didn't enter his mind until that smear had transferred from the ring to his damp thumb that it was blood.

He instantly felt nauseous.

_The kid probably deserved it for something else_, he reasoned for not the first time. Those people, those greasers, they all put themselves where they were, or at the very least, kept themselves there. It was a perpetual cycle of failure heightened by the occasional case of mediocrity. Any one of them had opportunities left and right to make something of themselves and do better with their lives. They were getting the same education as everyone else, for godsake. He thought of his mother then, and of her stories of the farm outside of Tulsa where she'd grown up – not poor, but by no means rich. She'd done better for herself.

By being sweet and beautiful and marrying a lawyer.

Grandpa, though – he'd started out as an apprentice and worked his way up. Now there was one guy you just couldn't slow down, not without a tranquilizer gun. He hadn't suffered from the same kind of motivation The Judge possessed, either. Nobody had handed Grandpa the world on a spoon. He was smart. He knew the score. He worked his _ass_ off. Even when somebody with their own lofty agenda would try to stand in his way, tell him he wasn't good enough –

Bob looked down at the ring, then excused himself and nearly ran down the hallway to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face until the waves of nausea passed.

_This is stupid._ That kid was more than likely a criminal. A criminal who hadn't been caught for half his crimes. He probably stole. He clearly fought. Maybe he'd even beat up a few little kids himself.

Bob rested his palms against the cool edge of the sink and watched in the mirror as the water ran down his face, along his neck, and under his shirt. Had Chris been more than a random target? Maybe those guys had gone after him because some rich kids had hassled one of their little brothers. He knew guys who did that – drove around the North side looking for greasers to jump. It wasn't his thing, but he'd never thought twice about it. Until now.

He wasn't impressed with the greasers, and never had been. They were crude. They were violent. Half the time, they were downright _uncivilized_.

But never in his life had Bob raised a fist against somebody who hadn't personally affronted him or one of his friends. That kid, yesterday – he hadn't even been on Bob's radar. Maybe he would have been, someday. But yesterday, he wasn't.

Bob took another look at his ring and closed his eyes, unable to rid his mind of that kid's face, cut and bleeding and scared. He opened his eyes, turned the faucet on, and ran that ring under the water, rubbing and scraping until the blood was gone. Only, it wasn't. He could still see it, no matter how hard he scrubbed or how long he held it under the water. Sure, it looked clean. But the blood didn't have to be there for Bob to be able to see it.

Less than an hour later, after the final bell had rung, Charlie caught up with him outside the gymnasium.

"Bob!"

He slowed and turned. "Hey, Charlie. What's going on?"

Charlie took a slow breath and glanced around. "Can I talk to you a sec?" His big arms and massive frame, practically the only thing you noticed when you talked to him, didn't give away the nervousness he was feeling; but his face did. Whatever was bothering Charlie, it wasn't something that was meant to be discussed in the middle of the hallway, where students were chattering about homework and rides and afterschool plans. _Trivial_ stuff.

Bob nodded. "Sure, we can talk." He looked across the hall, where a classroom stood dark and empty. "Come on. In here."

Charlie followed him, closing the door behind them. "Look," he said, wringing his hands and licking his lips. "You're a good friend, Bob. You know you are."

"Thanks." He wished he could get Charlie a drink or something. It was almost painful, watching him. "What's bothering you?" He was insanely glad that Charlie had never figured out that he had long since passed Bob in the physical intimidation realm.

"It's just . . . about yesterday."

A sick feeling rolled through Bob, and he suddenly knew what was eating at Charlie.

"I can't do that again, man. Nothing against you or anything, and I'm as pissed as you about your brother, but what we did yesterday -"

Bob held up a hand. "I know." He looked to the floor for a second before continuing. "You're a good friend, too, Chal. You've always had my back, from the time we were twelve. But that wasn't something I should have asked you to do."

Charlie looked instantly relieved. "Thanks, man. Like I said, you got all the respect in the world from me. I'll follow you to any rumble and I'll be the first to knock the lights out of any guy who wants to hurt you. But that kind of thing – it's just not my cup of tea."

Bob gave an unamused smile. "Yeah. I don't think it's mine, either."


	12. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

BOH Chapter 11**

"_. . . we gotta make the most of our one night together;  
When it's over, you know,  
We'll both be so alone . . ."_

Bob was positive that for as long as he lived, he would never understand how women worked.

"You know what I mean?" Cherry asked, brushing her hair off her shoulder and leaning back on both elbows. They had taken a blanket to the park to watch the kite flyers. "I mean, we're supposed to be friends, and she goes behind my back just because she heard from somebody else that I was the one who got her caught cheating a few weeks ago. Which I wasn't. It isn't like she didn't make it obvious all on her own. Who goes from three failed tests to a ninety-eight percent?"

"Do you know who told?" Bob asked; not that he cared. He just needed to keep responding so Cherry knew he was still involved in the conversation, especially with this one. She was normally good-looking, but when she got all steamed like that, she was downright _hot_.

"I don't know for sure who told," she said, "but I think it might have been Evelyn. She was mad because of what happened at prom last month. What a mess that was." Cherry shook her head. "You just can't say anything to anybody. You can't open up to anybody, especially the people you're closest to. You know?"

"Mmmm." He didn't know, not really, but it wasn't taking much to keep her going.

There was a depth in Cherry's eyes now, like she was reaching conclusions at warp speed. "It's like you can't even open up to your friends, because they'll use whatever you tell them and turn it on you later. There always has to be this mask of happiness. Don't let them in too close, and don't feel too much, or you'll get stepped on."

Bob lay all the way back and crossed his arms behind his head. "Didn't you say her and Evelyn used to be best friends?"

"For a while."

Bob just didn't get it, the way girls worked. Cherry seemed to have some understanding and acceptance of it, but she clearly didn't like it. So why didn't they all have a meeting and change things up some? Girls were just . . . bitches. And they seemed to all know it, too, even as they denied it. It simply wasn't like that with guys. You said what you meant; you punched anybody who crossed you, and then either shook hands or remained known enemies; and above all, you stood up for your buddies, no matter who, what, where, why, or when. Even David, who could be an asshole and was well aware that Bob knew he could be an asshole, was still his friend, despite some of the scuffles they'd had. Charlie was like a rock, and Randy would follow Bob to hell and back without being asked. Bob couldn't imagine any of them going behind each other's backs over stupid shit. Buddies just didn't do that to each other.

Cherry ran her hand along Bob's arm. "What're you thinking about?"

He shrugged, or did what he could to shrug in the position he was in. "Nothing important. What time is blastoff next Friday?"

She rolled her eyes. "Mother wants to be on the road by seven, though she's probably the last one who will be ready." Cherry smiled. "I am so glad you're coming along. I'm not sure I can take another long weekend at the lake house with just my family."

Bob could sympathize with that one. He'd been fifteen by the time Mom finally caved and let him off the hook on the annual summer vacation. "Do we get our own bedroom?" he asked.

She laughed. "I'm sure that'd go over well."

"Why wouldn't it?" He rolled onto his side toward her and, propped on one elbow, leaned toward her for a kiss. _Cherry_. She was wearing cherry lip gloss. "Clever."

"I was wondering when you'd notice."

He glanced around to make sure nobody was nearby before turning back to his girl. "Is it okay," he asked, sliding her hair off her cheek with his fingers, "if I notice a little bit longer?"

Without a word, she leaned into him and set a kiss on his lips that went straight to his balls.

He groaned. God, he loved that girl.

#

It was already hot by the time he got to her house at six-forty-five in the morning.

"Mom's not ready yet," Cherry said as she followed Bob to his car, where he hoisted her suitcase and cosmetic case and hair dryer case into the trunk. "She's been barking orders since before sunrise."

Bob leaned against the car, set a hand on Cherry's back, and gave it a light squeeze. "It'll be alright." Cherry got along with her mom about as well as Bob got along with his father. He rubbed his hand up and down and felt the tension nearly melt out of her.

"Thank you." She shook her head. "I just don't understand her."

"I know." It was one of those things they didn't even need to talk about anymore, they were so completely on the same page. What helped keep things from being a complete disaster when Bob was invited along on one of the Valence family outings was that Mrs. Valence thought Bob was the next messiah or something. Compared to some of the other guys Cherry had dated, he figured he practically was.

"Wonderful," Cherry muttered, "here comes the little ray of sunshine."

Her sister, Gail, strutted up with all the attitude a nine-year-old could possibly hope to display. "Cherry," she said, "Mother says you are to pack your white sundress for the Mitchell's cocktail party."

Cherry rolled her eyes. "Tell Mother," she said, "that I already packed it."

Gail, who had been circling Bob's car, fixated, didn't bother to look at her sister. "Go tell her yourself. I'm not the intercom."

Bob bit back a grin.

Gail reached forward and set her hand on the side-view mirror, causing it to shift.

Horrified, Cherry gasped. "Gail! Take you hands off that! I'm sorry, Bob, she's such a brat sometimes."

Bob waved a dismissive hand. "It's alright, she's not doing anything. I have a little brother, remember? She's fine." He walked over to readjust the mirror and leaned against the door of the car. "You want to go for a little ride? Take a spin around the block?"

"Really?" Gail looked ecstatic.

"You don't need to take her for a ride," Cherry said.

Gail glared at her sister. "Shut up."

"We'll all go." Bob tugged the door open and swept his arm toward the car. "Hop in. We'll be back before it's time to leave."

Gail jumped straight into the front seat and crawled across to the passenger side.

Cherry paused in front of Bob with a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry. You really don't need to do this."

He ran a hand down her hair to her shoulder and brushed his thumb against her neck. "It's fine. We'll have plenty of time for just us on the ride up to the lake. Sometimes it's worth the effort to make the junior troops happy first." Having once been one of those junior troops, he meant it – he remembered all too well what it felt like to be ignored, stiffed, or downright forgotten by an older sibling.

Still smiling, Cherry gave him one last look – was that surprised? impressed? maybe even a little horny? – before sliding into the back seat.

Bob got in the car, slammed the door, and turned the key in the ignition. A little drive was nothing, especially when there was a good old-fashioned thank-you makeout session waiting in the wings.

#

The makeout session didn't come through until late Saturday afternoon, when the two of them finally had a chance to slip away to a quiet nook off the pathway that led from the main house to the guest cottage.

_Good Lord, these people have money_, Bob thought. Not that his family didn't, but theirs was only two generations thick, at most. Cherry's family had been rolling in dough since before the Civil War. There were houses, boats, guest houses, vacation cottages, goddamned guest _boats_ . . .

"We should probably get over to the lake now," Cherry said. She gave him a wistful look and ran her fingers through his hair. He recognized the look on her face as the one that probably matched his own - like there was so much she wanted to say to him right then, there just weren't enough words in the universe to even bother trying.

The pressure in his groin spread through his abdomen, his legs, his chest, his _heart_. He literally ached for her. "Yeah," he whispered, unwilling to damage what they'd built between them. "We should get back now."

She strolled down to the water to cool off when they got there, but he was content to spread a towel on the beach and just watch her. She leaned forward, dipped her hair into the water, and let the glistening drops fall back into the lake, then down her back when she stood upright. She laughed when her cousin threw a beach ball at her, and the two of them got into a little battle with the thing.

He would have been happy sitting there for hours, just watching her, and he couldn't remember feeling like that about any of his previous girlfriends. There was something about her. She glowed, and when she smiled at him, he knew it was only for him. There was _connection_.

It was as terrifying as it was enthralling.

Suddenly, without intending to, he was thinking about his parents – had Mom ever made The Judge feel that way? Had he ever looked at her, back when she was Mary Remington, and known that he wouldn't care if the rest of the world caved in around him, as long as she was there? Every part of Bob wished it had been nothing like that; but having seen the way his mother sometimes looked at The Judge, like she was sixteen and he'd just won the big game, Bob knew it had been just like that. The thought almost made him feel sick.

He lay back on the blanket and closed his eyes, hoping his mind would also close to the image of his father, tall and strong and honest, on the exact day that Bob realized who he really was. It didn't work. It never did.

He could recall the day down to the last detail, so that he could still taste the damp autumn air that followed three days of rain.

_He was twelve. He had left for school in the morning, but on the way there had stowed his books in the back of the broken-down van that, for eight months, had occupied a spot on a side road just up from the school. Giddy with the criminal intent of a middle-school youngster, he met up with two of his friends in a prearranged location just south of downtown._

_His first experience with cutting school started off as liberating – they tossed rocks off the train bridge, went to the movie theatre for a matinee, and wandered through town uncontested and without remorse. And then, lunchtime rolled around. _

_Bob could still see the waiter, the one they had laughed at when he gawked at the roll of bills the young boy produced, and who unquestioningly showed them to a seat. He could still smell the block-patterned carpet, hear the clinking silverware, feel the hushed tone of the formal establishment, and above all else, no matter how hard he tried to forget, he could still see that familiar coat. It was long and black, and draped down the front of the shoulders was a blue silk scarf – the one his mother had given his father for Christmas two years earlier. As the couple approached through the sea of tables, everything else about the man was familiar, too – his neatly trimmed beard, the graying patches above his ears, the large onyx ring inherited from his father . . ._

_The only unfamiliar thing was the woman whose hip so easily rested against his guiding hand._

_She was slim and professional. She wore her hair in a bun, and her lipstick was so natural it was almost pointless; her teeth were straight and shining white, and her skin was the silky smooth skin of a woman much younger than the man who had bought her lunch. _

_Forgetting who he was, forgetting where he was, and forgetting that he was not supposed to be in the place where he was now sitting, Bob locked eyes with his father, seeking an answer to the scene in front of him. His father moved on, pretending he hadn't seen Bob, but the answer his silence had offered was undeniable._

_Later that night, Judge Sheldon tapped on his son's bedroom door. "You did something today that you shouldn't have," he commented, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He gave a slight smile to the boy, who was prepared for the worst as he sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded. "I myself cut school a few times as a boy. Did you know that?"_

_Bob shook his head. "No," he answered flatly._

_The Judge nodded. "Oh, sure. All boys do, at some point. They meet up with their friends, they have a day to themselves, and then, the next day, they go back to school and catch up on everything they missed. Right?" Receiving no response, he continued. "Do you think in the long run their teachers really miss out on having them in the class for that one day? Or those two days, or three days?"_

_Bob shrugged. The bed beside him sank down as his father sat and placed a strong hand on his shoulder. _

"_Well, I'll tell you – no, Bobby, they don't. In the end, you've done what you needed to do to keep up with the class, the teacher has taught you well, and nobody ever remembers those few days when you didn't go to school. They make a fuss about it if they find out, sure, but that's because the teachers need to play along with the rules. They understand that boys have needs; they need freedom. And with all of those kids in the classroom clamoring for their attention, sometimes teachers need a few of their boys to take the day off. They pretend it bothers them, but really, those boys are doing them a favor by giving them fewer responsibilities to attend to when their plate is full." He gazed down into his son's eyes and gave him a pointed look. "Do you understand?"_

_Bob shifted under his father's gaze. Would any other answer do? "Yes. I understand."_

_The Judge smiled and patted his boy on the back. "There's my boy. You know, your grandfather would be proud of you, Bobby. I was going to wait and give you this when you were older, but it seems like now would be a better time." He paused to slide the onyx ring from his right index finger. He handed it to his son, rolling the boy's fist around the cold metal. "Wear it proudly, Bobby. Your Grandfather would have wanted you to have it." _

_He wrapped an arm around Bob's shoulders and leaned in close to him. "Now, how about me and you keep today as . . . our little secret. You take your days off when you need them, and I'll take care of my own needs, and nobody else has to know anything about it. So then," he finished, standing up to stretch his arms over his head, "how about we head over to the Sears-Roebuck so you can show me that record player you've been asking for."_


	13. Chapter 12

_. . . and down in the tunnel where the deadly are rising,  
Oh I swear I saw a young boy down in the gutter,  
He was starting to foam in the heat . . . _

**BOH Chapter 12**

It drove The Judge crazy that Bob wouldn't take the summer job he'd arranged at his office. "You're making a terrible choice," he'd told Bob. "By the time you get to college, all the interns we've got working there now will be worlds ahead of you."

But Bob hated being stuck inside during the summer almost as much as he enjoyed doing things that made The Judge crazy. Besides, this was the one time he could pull in his own money – money that hadn't gone through the hands of anybody else in his family.

Today, though, he was getting home early because the filter had broken, and the part wouldn't be available until the next day. No filter meant no clean water, and no clean water meant the pool was closed, which in turn meant the lifeguards were nothing more than fancy decorations.

Bob always felt strange walking into the house hours ahead of normal time, though, regardless of the reason. There was an illegal feel to it, like back in elementary school when he'd stayed home sick, even though he didn't feel half as bad as he'd let Mom believe. Everything was quiet and eerie, as if the house was taking a nap in the calm before the storm – before the boys got home from work or friends' houses, before the kitchen became a flurry of activity under Rosella's hands, before The Judge strode in with his briefcase in one hand and his hat in the other.

"Hello?" he called out, and his voice echoed back to him. He shook his head at himself. "Damned ghost stories," he muttered. It wasn't something he intended on sharing with anybody, _ever_, but as much as he tried to talk himself out of believing in ghosts, the tense energy of an empty house always sent a wave of prickles up his spine.

It wasn't until he was headed out of the kitchen with a glass of milk and three cookies that he heard the noise in the basement. After a short pause and a quick breath, Bob set the glass and the cookies on the counter and pushed on the slightly opened basement door. The light was turned on.

Like a cat prowling an alley, he slunk down the steps and around the corner, mentally cursing at himself the whole way – _why bother being quiet?_ _what kind of ghost do you think you can just sneak up on, you idiot? not that there's any such thing as a goddamned ghost_ – until he'd reached the far side of the basement, where the laundry room was.

It was his mother. He relaxed instantly and almost laughed out loud before noticing the look on her face. She appeared to have been sorting laundry – the second floor hallway contained a chute that led straight to the laundry room and, housecleaner or not, Mary Sheldon had no intention of letting anybody else handle her family's laundry – but instead of sorting, she was just standing there staring at one of The Judge's shirts that she held at arm's length in front of her.

She hadn't noticed Bob. He watched for a moment, breathless, until his eye caught the gleam on the shirt – what looked like a small gold hoop earring dangled from the sleeve. His mother's gaze was fixed on that earring.

Frustration and anger clutching his chest, he cleared his throat and forced a smile. "Mom?"

She turned and looked at him as if pulled out of a dream. No, a _nightmare_. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come home." Her tone was as flat and desperate as her expression.

He looked at the shirt, and she quickly snapped out of her daze and started to crumple it up. "I'm just getting the laundry done . . ."

"Is that . . ." Bob stepped into the laundry room and took a closer look at the shirt. "You found it!" He picked the earring off the shirt sleeve. "Cherry's been looking everywhere for this."

His mother blinked once before relief washed over her expression, and she laughed. "Oh! Oh, that's wonderful! I mean, not that she lost her earring, but that . . . I'm so glad it turned up."

Bob pocketed the earring. "Yeah. Me too."

Mary tossed the shirt into the pile of light-colored clothes and took her son by the arm. "Come on upstairs, Bobby, and I'll get you something to eat. You can tell me about work."

"Sure." He allowed himself to be led up to the kitchen, where his mom scooped chicken salad onto a fresh roll as she chattered on about the sweltering heat and the rose garden and the frog this morning in the neighbor's pool.

_Did she really believe me?_ Did she honestly believe that Cherry's earring had somehow managed to get stuck to her boyfriend's father's shirt sleeve? He was almost as angry with her as he was at The Judge, for wanting so badly for Bob's story to be true. How could she not see? How could she be so blind?

Was it because she believed The Judge? Or because she knew Bob would never lie to her?

He took a bite of the sandwich, which might just as well have been cardboard, before pushing the plate aside. "Mom, I forgot – I need to head downtown to pick something up. I was supposed to do it on the way home tonight." If she answered, he didn't pay attention. He just needed to get out of that house. He needed to get away from her smile, her unwarranted attention. He needed to forget for a while.

#

"Did I miss the party?" Randy blew a lungful of smoke off to the side and squinted at Bob. "I thought we were just taking the girls out for a burger."

Bob smiled and leaned in the doorway of Randy's garage, which was swaying like the hold of a ship. "I hate my family." Even as he said it, he was aware that all the words had blended into one great combined thought. _Ihatemyfamily_. It made him laugh. He thought there must be something profound about the words of that particular sentence connecting themselves to each other, but he'd have to figure it out later. Right now, it was just funny.

"Buddy, you are hammered."

He laughed harder, folding himself in half when his breath started running out. Which in itself was even more funny and profound than whatever he'd just been laughing at that he couldn't remember.

Randy's hand wrapped around Bob's arm and pressed downward. "Here, sit down for a sec. I'll go call the girls, tell them we'll be a little late. We'll take a walk."

Bob sat. He wondered if the ant in the crack that separated the garage floor from the driveway thought it was in a canyon. No, that didn't seem right – it was just walking right out the top of it. Too small. Big. Something like that. If only the damn thing would just . . . now there was another one. It was a whole trail, he realized. A whole goddamned trail of ants. He tried to put his finger in their way, see if they would walk across it, but only ended up crushing three of them.

"What the hell you doing?" Randy hauled him to his feet, and Bob wiped the dead ants from his finger to his pants. "Was Brian over or something?"

Bob laughed. "No. Fuckin' Brian. No, he wasn't over. Here, you wan' some?"

Randy took the flask and downed a swallow as they made their way along the driveway. "So what happened?"

_We used to be a family_, he wanted to say. We used to be a team. Me, Brian, Anna, Chris, Mom, and Dad. He gave his head a shake. What kind of stupid thinking was that? _I'm not a little kid anymore._ _I stopped being a little kid when I was twelve._ Bob couldn't figure out whether it was good or bad that he could pinpoint the exact time he'd realized that adults screwed up as much as kids did; sometimes, more so. Nobody was there to make them fess up or apologize, either. If you can get away with it, what the hell, who gives a shit? Growing up didn't make you wiser or better; it just made you older.

Sure, Bob thought, everybody figures out at some point that the world can suck and people lie and you have to watch your back. Everybody loses that innocence. He just wished it hadn't been his own father who'd provided the evidence. And he wished with everything in his soul that he could still ask his dad a question, a really deep, thoughtful, help-me-understand-life question, without wondering whether or not he was getting a straight answer. _Just be my dad again._ But you can't wipe away what you already know. Was Chris better off not knowing? Was he better off still believing that he could trust whatever Dad told him?

Bob shook his head again and stumbled sideways. He wanted to get away from these thoughts, shake them right out of his head, because there was never an answer. He wanted to think about the ants instead. _The ants, the ants, the goddamned ants._

The tension was creeping back in, though, a little at a time. That's why he'd come here. It always happened that way – for the first couple hours it all just melted away, and he didn't care about anyone or anything. The world was good. Then, something happened – a switch flipped – and it all rushed at him like a freight train. And Randy knew it, which was why he was the best friend any guy in the world could ask for.

"I hate them, man," Bob said, emotion dripping from each word. "I absolutely hate them." He blinked as the world spun around him and nearly threw him off balance again.

Randy took another swallow and handed the flask back. "Not all of them."

He shook his head. "It's all a bunch of lies. They all keep telling each other the same lies, and then they act like it's all good. Like they're not all a bunch of lying hypocrites." He knew he was just stringing words together, and that Randy had no real clue what he was talking about, and that he wasn't really talking about Chris, who had no idea that their father was a lying piece of shit any more than Randy did; but saying the words was somehow releasing some of the anger. "I hate them."

He wondered what would happen if he asked for his own house. The thought made him laugh, but not in a good way.

Randy gave his shoulder a squeeze, but said nothing.

_Would he give me a house?_ He gave me a car. He's given me every goddamned thing I've asked for since I was twelve. Of course, the price Bob paid was the disappointment The Judge showed in everything Bob did. Like he thought Bob was doing it on purpose.

Maybe I should, he thought. Maybe I should ask for – no, demand – every little goddamned thing that pops into my head. When would he say no? When would he take that chance? When would it be worth it for him to give up on extracurricular activities and show his wife and his children the respect they deserved? Because obviously he figured that if Bob didn't get what he asked for, he would tell Mom himself – "The Judge sees other women. He doesn't love you the way you think he does." Why didn't he understand that Bob wasn't about to rip her heart out any more than he was? What the hell would it take for his father to stand up for what was right and say no?

With crushing certainty, the answer came to him as clearly as it should have when he was sober. "He'll never say no to me." The agonizing truth his words carried almost brought him to his knees.

"What?" Randy slowed down, and then sat on a low stone wall that surrounded somebody's property.

"He'll never say no," Bob repeated. "He will never tell me no." _He will never give in. He will never stop seeing them._ He will never be the man his wife fell in love with.

_And because I know about it, I will never be the son she thinks I am_.

With a roar, Bob turned and threw the flask like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. "I hate them." _I hate myself._


	14. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I am making no profit from this story.

**

* * *

Chapter 13**

"You sure you want to still go?"

Bob tugged at the door handle. "We're already here. I gotta see Cherry." Somehow, she would make things better. All he wanted was to curl himself around her and forget that anybody else in the world existed. His whole body throbbed with longing at the thought of her arms wrapped around him and her breath against his neck.

Randy crushed his cigarette into the ashtray and took a swallow from the flask, which they'd recovered from a hedge row and refilled at his house. "Let's go, then." He pulled on the handle and fell out when the door popped open.

"Quit screwin' around," Bob said, leaning against the car and making his way around to Randy. "Getup off the ground."

Randy was on his side, laughing. "Hangon. Okay. Hang. On."

"You two need a hand?"

Bob turned at Charlie's voice. "Cherry here?" It was all he cared about. He needed her. She was one of the few constants in his life right now.

Charlie gave him an amused look and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Other side of the building. Man, I never see you this plastered. Where the hell's the party?"

Ignoring Charlie, Bob walked toward Jay's, calling Cherry's name a few times as he went.

She was sitting on the hood of her stingray, legs crossed, talking to a few of her girlfriends. One of them glanced at Bob as he approached, then leaned toward Cherry and whispered something. She turned around.

"Hey, Cherry," he greeted, circling the car on unsteady feet to lean next to her. Just the scent of her was enough to make him hard. Or would have, if he wasn't so plastered. "Leh's take a walk." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. _What the hell?_

"You're drunk," she said under her breath.

The fact that she was saying it like it was a secret, when everybody and their uncle could clearly see he was drunk, was funny. _Really_ funny.

"Stop it," she said, louder.

He stopped laughing, mostly, and tried to take her hand again. "Come on, baby. Leh's take a walk."

Her friends had shifted their little circle closer to the building and were whispering among themselves now, glancing over every so often.

Cherry hopped off the car, took his hand firmly in hers, and pulled him toward the far end of the parking lot. They were just up to the sidewalk when she spoke again. "You're embarrassing me."

He had been moving along with her willingly, still chuckling; but at that, he stopped dead. "What'd you say?"

She gave his hand a tug and turned to him when he didn't move. "I said, you're embarrassing me. Look at you! You can barely stand up." She looked away for a second and took a shaky breath. When she spoke again, her voice was moist with emotion. "I don't like drinking, and I don't like being around people who are drinking. Okay? It's just, something happened to somebody in my family." She gave her head a little shake, looked away for a second, and took a deep breath. "I can't stand when people I care about drink."

He could see she was pissed, or upset, or something, and he heard her words and understood them for that first instant; but then they were gone, caught up in his hopelessly runaway train of thought, right along with whatever his response had been. He tried to shake it off, but seconds after she'd spoken, as she was standing there looking at him like he was supposed to say something back to her, all he could think of was how bad he wanted to sleep with her. Did she like to do it the normal way? Or did she prefer to be on top? Maybe even sitting up, with her hair draped down her bare back . . .

"Bob!" Her tone was firm, but strained. She wasn't just angry. She was disappointed.

He had to get away from her. This was all wrong. She was supposed to _understand_ what was going on with him. Right now, though, she looked more confused than he felt. He turned around. "Ne'r mind."

"Stop. Stop!" She had his arm now and was trying to keep him from getting back to where everybody else was. "Bob, come on. Let's just go for a walk."

With one sudden movement, he jerked his arm out of her hand and sent himself sprawling at the same time. Five minutes ago, it would have seemed funny. Now, it just pissed him off. She was making him look like an _idiot_.

"Bob, come on . . ."

Randy appeared then, along with Charlie, who took Bob by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "You alright, man?"

He wanted to _kill_ that woman. Without warning, he could see her face, plain as day, just like that afternoon at the restaurant when he'd first seen her when he was twelve years old. He hated her. She _knew_ he was married. She _knew_ he had a family. There were only pictures of them all over his desk. What kind of a person dated somebody she knew was taken? She was no better than The Judge. It was enough wondering what people would think about his father because of her. What would they think about his mother? What kind of cold, sterile bitch would they think his mother was? He _hated_ that woman.

"Fuckin' bitch," was the last thing he remembered saying, and Cherry's face was the last one he saw until he woke up in the dark backseat of a car a lifetime later.

#

Bob sat up and pressed his palm against his eyes. "God."

"Yes?"

He sighed. He was still drunk. The car spun and swerved around him, though he was almost certain they weren't even moving. "Where are we?"

"Hell."

It almost made him smile. "No shit." He squinted his eyes open just enough to see Randy leaning sideways against the front passenger door. "What time is it?"

"Eleven."

He sighed again and tried to orient himself in time. It was like when he fell asleep in the middle of the day, then woke up sometime after dinner. Was it morning? Night? Only, the alcohol increased the feeling enough to have him wondering what planet he was currently inhabiting. "Shit."

"Ditto."

He squinted again at Randy. "Got any more'n one-word answers?"

With one hand over his face, Randy gave his head a slight shake. "No."

"What happened?" Bob leaned his head against the back dash and stared at the ceiling fabric.

"It was crazy," Randy said. "You kind of went nuts, tried to get back to the car, said a couple of unmentionable things to Cherry, tried to start a fight with a couple guys over a cigarette, and then passed out." He winced, as if the effort of his explanation had hurt. "Me and Charlie finally got you out of there. You scared the crap out of us." He paused to glance into the back seat. "You don't remember?"

"No." Up to a point he did, but as much as he strained, the rest wouldn't come. It was strange, having somebody else describe to him something he had done, but had no recollection of. He didn't much like it. "I wanted to see Cherry," he finally said. "I wanted to go for a walk." He remembered that – the longing ache of needing to be with somebody he could confide in. Somebody who would understand. Somebody he could tell . . .

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. _I would have told her_. If I hadn't passed out, just a little bit less to drink, and I would have told her about The Judge. The Judge, and his woman. Women. _Whatever_. The Great Family Secret. It had no place other than within his family, a slow-burning fire with clearly defined boundaries. God only knew how far it would have spread if he'd tossed a spark of it out into the world. As much as he resented The Judge, he was smart enough to know what a secret like that would do to his family's reputation if it got out. "I passed out," he said. "Thank God for small favors."

"Should wait some more before we head home," Randy suggested.

Bob thought about that one for a minute. Wait around until the alcohol wore off? Or head on home and see what The Judge had to say about one of his underage offspring drinking like a fish? There were more ways to push him than with money. "Let's go home."

Randy stopped rubbing his temples to glance back at Bob. "You sure?"

"Yeah." He knew he was still drunk. It would take more than those couple of hours to lose this high. But now, he was relaxed. He was calm. He could take anything.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's go home."

#

He stood in the living room, in front of The Judge, like they were chatting about current trends in the stock market. Only, Bob was the only one smiling.

It was forced, though. With Mom standing right there, his heart wasn't in it. He couldn't enjoy it like he might have if it had just been the two of them, him and The Judge, face to face like in one of those cowboy movies.

Still, he smiled. The feeling of relaxation just swallowed him, and he let out a slow, easy sigh. "So yer still up."

His father's face managed to transform to a deep shade of red without changing its expression one iota.

His mother stood breathless, staring, shocked. But somehow, not. He wasn't really looking at her, anyway. This was half her fault, he told himself, for being blind to her own life.

Randy cleared his throat, a sound that echoed through the entire downstairs.

Judge Sheldon's voice, though quiet, somehow also managed to be booming. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

_What is wrong with me? _All the edges of the house were softened, like in a dream. Even the lamps cast calming shadows. _What is wrong with me?_

Bob rolled his head around to stretch his neck, then tipped his chin at his father. "Wrong with me? S'there somethin' wrong with me?"

"You're drunk," he said, spitting out the words like spoiled milk.

Mary stood motionless, slightly behind her husband, with one hand covering her mouth.

"Yeah." Bob gave a slight laugh, as if he'd remembered a joke that nobody else was in on. The laugh turned to a smile that showed no amusement and, not taking his eyes off his father's, he reached into his pocket. "You want my car keys?" In one clumsy movement, he pulled the keys out of his pocket and allowed the gold hoop earring to clink to the hardwood floor.

Bob didn't bother looking down, but his father did. "Cherry's earring," Bob said. "Must've forgotten to give it to her." With a pointed look, willing The Judge to take his dare and call him on his bluff, held the keys out. "You want them?" _You want me to play games, I'll play games. _

The Judge looked at the earring, and then his gaze locked on Bob's. A slight smile crept across Bob's mouth, and he gave the keys a little shake. _Go ahead_. Be a man. Show me you're the guy I used to believe you were.

For a brief instant, he thought his father would do it. But then, the understanding that had passed between them was gone, that open door slammed shut, and The Judge looked away. "This is our fault," he said to his wife. "We haven't shown him enough guidance."

Bob and his mother made the same strangled noise at exactly the same moment. _He's blaming her_, he thought. My goddamned asshole father is making my mother believe she failed me.

He turned and threw the keys with enough force to crack the front window. "God _damn_ you!" Bob shouted, near tears. "You goddamned asshole piece of shit –"

"Enough!" his father boomed, and Randy took the opportunity to slip into the foyer and out the front door. "You apologize to your mother."

But he turned and was gone, through the foyer and up the stairs, pausing at the door to his bedroom just long enough to see a flash of movement at the far end of the hallway. He took a slow breath, closed his eyes, and spoke one word under his breath. "Chris."


	15. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Franklin W. Dixon owns The Hardy Boys. I am making no profit from this story.

**A/N:** Since it's been a while since I updated, I'll take a moment to job everybody's memory - After having to directly lie to his mother about his father's extracurricular activities, Bob has a bit too much to drink. He goes to Randy first, then, in a drunken-induced lapse in judgment, decides he absolutely _must_ see Cherry. She is less than impressed. After blurting out a few unmentionable words that appear to be directed at Cherry, Bob passes out and wakes up in the back of his car hours later, still feeling the effects of the alcohol. Rather than keep pretending there's nothing wrong, Bob goes home to face his parents in the hopes that his father will put his foot down rather than continuing to indulge Bob in order to keep his own secret. There's some yelling, Bob breaks a window with his keys, and after heading upstairs, he sees Chris ducking back into his room and realizes he probably heard the whole thing. Moving on . . .

**Chapter 14**

"_When the day is over  
And the sun goes down  
And the moonlights shining through,  
Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven  
I'll come crawling on back to you . . ."_

"Did we wake you?"

Chris sat cross-legged on his bed and stared through the near-darkness at his wringing hands. "I was awake." He nodded back toward the flashlight that still shone from under his blanket. "I was reading." He took a breath. "I thought I heard something break." He didn't mention the yelling.

Bob closed the door behind him and came into the room on unsteady legs to flop onto the bed. "Sorry."

Chris wasn't sure what to think, but he didn't like the sick tension that was flooding over him in growing waves. "You okay?"

His brother sighed and rolled onto his back. "I'm never okay, Chris."

"Yeah you are." He hated when things swung so far from normal. It made him sick and sad and empty. "You're always okay."

Bob laughed and rolled onto his side. "Don't grow up," he said. "Ain't worth it."

Chris pulled his legs up onto the bed and pivoted himself so he could stretch out next to Bob. The sharp scent of whisky made him recoil, but he recovered almost immediately. _Was Bob drunk?_ Chris had never been around a drunk person before. He stiffened, remembering some of what he had heard about what drinking could do to a person. One of the boys in his class had bruises all the time, bruises he blamed on fights and rumbles, even though he was only eleven. But some of the other kids in the class said it was because his dad went out drinking and then came home and hit him. Drinking made you different. It made you scary.

It made you hurt the people you were supposed to love.

He jumped when Bob's arm moved in his direction, and stiffened when it was draped across him.

"What're ya' readin'?" Bob mumbled.

"Hardy Boys."

There was a moment of complete silence before Bob spoke again. "You dead?"

Chris furrowed his brow. "What?"

"You're all rigor-mortis-like."

Chris took a breath and relaxed his body. "Sorry." Apparently, Bob had no intention of pummeling him. "Do . . . do you need anything?"

Bob let out a sniffing laugh that turned into a hearty, rolling chuckle. "Got a spare family lying around?"

Just barely, Chris stiffened, and Bob stopped laughing.

"Not you," he said. "Forget it. What the hell –" He shifted his body and twisted his arm behind his back; it emerged a moment later with the flashlight, still turned on. He set it on Chris's chest so that the light shone toward his chin and left eerie shadows on the walls. "Here's yer weapon."

Chris turned off the flashlight and reached over to put it on the nightstand.

"You can keep readin'."

He looked at Bob – his eyes were closed and his breathing was even. He looks happy, Chris thought. Maybe not happy. Content. That was a better word for it. It wasn't a look he saw on his brother too often. It seemed like there was always something bigger and more important on the fringes of Bob's mind that showed right through his eyes – somewhere else to be, somebody else to see, something more to be done. It was rare that Bob was just content to be where he was, when he was. Right now, though, he was.

Chris rolled onto his side, his back to his brother, took the flashlight and book off the nightstand, and felt for the bookmark.

"Out loud," Bob muttered when Chris turned the flashlight on.

He set the flashlight in the crook of his elbow and adjusted his book when Bob's arm curled around his chest and pulled him backwards slightly, so they were pressed together. He licked his lips and swallowed, then started reading. "'What's cooking, Dad?' Frank asked as the two boys sank into comfortable seats. 'Another mystery?' queried Joe. Mr. Hardy flashed a smile, then became serious and opened a dossier before him on the desk. 'I've got important news,' he said."

Chris paused a moment to listen to his brother's steady breathing. "Bob?" he whispered. Receiving no response, he turned off the flashlight and set it, along with the book, on his nightstand. He wasn't much in the mood to read right now. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to sleep. So he lay as still as he could and let his breathing fall into sync with Bob's. Within moments, he realized his eyelids were drooping closed. He gingerly set his fingers on Bob's hand and traced the shape of one of his brother's rings with his thumb. "You're okay," he said again, closing his eyes. "You're always okay."

He wished he believed himself.

#

Bob tried to pretend that wall wasn't there, that invisible tension that stood between him and Cherry; but it was, and as much as he chipped at it and tried to step around to the other side of it, it just wouldn't budge.

"Maybe we can get together next weekend," Cherry suggested.

Bob nodded. "Sure. That works for me."

Ever since that night last month, when he'd shown up drunken and disorderly at her feet, she was a little less open and a little more aloof. It wasn't something he might even have picked up on with any other girl. With Cherry, though, it ate away at him every time they were together and he realized it was still there, that ever-present wall of guardedness. They just didn't talk like they used to.

He had told her he didn't usually drink. He had apologized. He had explained that the awful things he had said weren't directed at her.

And after a few days of cooling off, she had accepted his apology and smiled at him and told him she believed him.

But still, there was something between them that wasn't there before. Or maybe there was something missing now, something previously undetectable that, now absent, threw off the entire balance of their relationship. Bob had never felt this kind of loss of control. Usually he snipped off the frayed remains of a relationship quick and easy, but this time, he couldn't do it. This time, it was Cherry. This time, it was different.

This time, he couldn't get beyond watching it all succumb to an agonizingly slow death.

"You have a rodeo tomorrow, right?"

She twirled her straw around in her drink and glanced around the diner. "Yeah."

"I have to work."

"It's fine. Just the same old thing, anyway." She gave a slight smile when he reached across the table and set his hand on hers, but then she shifted her gaze to the doorway and smiled at somebody. "Maryanne is here with Sheila."

He didn't bother twisting around to see.

Within moments, the girls were standing next to their booth. "Cherry," Maryanne said, glancing at Bob, "do you have a minute?" She looked wildly excited about something.

Cherry looked at Bob like she was expecting him to give her permission or something, so he gave a slight shrug. "Have fun."

Randy slid into the booth a few minutes after the girls had wandered off toward the bathroom. "Dining alone this evening?"

He shrugged again and bounced the straw around in his Coke. "Apparently."

"Big news or something?"

"No idea." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and massaged his forehead with his fingertips. His head didn't hurt, but every other indication of a headache was there – the tension, the shallow fatigue, the sensation that every noise around him was being blasted through a bullhorn . . . .

"You alright?"

Bob closed his eyes against the sunlight that was pounding past the curtains. "Yeah. Headache."

"Bob?" Cherry's voice cut through his conscience like a blast of water through mud.

He opened his eyes a slit. Randy was still sitting across from him (drinking his Coke, he noticed with an inward grin; there was something grounding about having a friend who was more like a brother), and Cherry stood next to the booth looking like she had no intention of sitting back down. Bob sighed and slid toward the aisle. "Let's go."

She walked to the car with his hand against the small of her back, but around turned when they got to the car and he didn't make a move to open the door. "What's wrong?"

He took a slow, deep breath of stagnant August air. The haze, brought on by a particularly harsh bout of humidity, settled among the buildings and trees with the weight of a damp towel. His hand was resting against her hip now, lightly, as inoffensively as he could manage. The smell of her body intermingled with the scent of her cologne and her shampoo. A desperate longing, urgent, passionate, swept through him like a flash flood. _I can't lose her now._ If he didn't fix things now, he knew, the two of them would be old news before school even started. It was something he didn't even want to imagine.

He set his hand firmly against her hip and locked his gaze with hers. "Can we take a walk?"


	16. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 15**

"She thinks you have a drinking problem?"

Bob tossed his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and crushed it under his shoe. "That's what she was hinting at."

Randy wrinkled his forehead and contorted his face into an exaggeratedly skeptical smirk. "Does she realize that if you have a drinking problem, then half the student body are full-blown alcoholics? Christ, everybody drinks."

Both young men automatically slowed as they passed by the record store window, as if the place emitted an invisible teenager-tractor-beam.

"Her mom's constantly got a drink in her hand," Bob said after they'd resumed normal speed.

"Really?"

"Yeah." He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped the edge against his wrist to jostle one free. "I'm not sure I've ever seen the woman completely sober. I mean," he paused to set the cigarette between his lips and lean over for a light from Randy, "everybody's got family problems, but that just beats all, you know? I can't imagine my mom sucking down vodka every day like it's apple juice."

Randy lit his own cigarette. "That's a bummer. So how come Cherry thinks you're the one with the problem?"

Bob shrugged and inhaled a deep breath of smoke. "I guess she's just sensitive to it or something. She didn't really say, other than that I'm _different_ when I drink."

Randy let out a choking laugh. "No kidding? Drinking makes you different?" He shook his head. "That's the point, no?"

Bob pulled his keys out of his pocket as they stepped up to his car. "Meter's still good," he said, and unlocked the door. He wanted to change the subject, and fast. He didn't usually care if Randy voiced an opinion on one of his girls, but when it came to Cherry, his first response to criticism of her was irritation. "Doesn't matter," he said. "There's nothing wrong with me, but if she doesn't want me to drink around her, so be it. I told her I won't touch the stuff again. What?"

Randy had paused halfway into the car to stare at Bob across the roof. "Are you serious?"

"Half." He sank into the driver's seat and adjusted the mirror. "We're not glued to each other, right? She's not with me all the time." He paused to glance at Randy with a slight grin before setting the key in the ignition. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her, right?"

#

Bob jolted awake three hours before sunrise. He stared, wide-eyed, into the darkness of his bedroom. Sweat rolled down his sides, and his heart hammered a steady beat in his ears.

"Jesus," he breathed, then took a purposely steady breath to stave off the gasps he'd woken up to.

He picked up the clock from his nightstand and squinted at it, hoping it was just about time to get up anyway. _Damn_. He took a few more deep breaths and mopped the sweat from his body with his sheet, then made a mental note that sheets didn't work nearly so well as towels when it came to drying one's body.

After untangling his legs from the bedding, Bob wandered out into the quiet hallway and down to the bathroom to take a leak after effectively blinding himself with the light. He squinted at himself in the mirror, cupped his hands to get a few swallows of water from the faucet, and then headed back to his room.

What a crappy dream, he thought. It was a blurred combination of darkened streets and slippery roads, and a horde of dark-haired kids plus Chris all coming after him wielding sharp pencils and coffee mugs. Bob chuckled to himself. _How could such a stupid dream have seemed scary? _ But in the moment, in his head, it had all been perfectly real and terrifying. He hadn't even questioned what the hell was so lethal about a coffee mug. "Jesus," he said again, this time with a smile. "Thank God school's starting this week. This summer's been hell-bent on making me insane."

#

He loved watching her bounce around at practice. There was something about an athletic girl that drew him right in. Maybe it was the energy. He loved that bouncing, swirling, laughing energy that bubbled through when she was moving her body, whether she was in a skirt and holding pom-poms, or in a saddle with a half-ton animal clutched between her legs.

She smiled when she saw him, and his heart gave a quick extra beat that spread straight to his face. "Hey," she said in a laughing, breathless voice. She came over and looped her arm around his. "How long have you been standing here?"

He reached out to set her hair behind her ear. "About five minutes. You look real good."

"Thanks." She leaned up to give him a quick kiss. "We still on for tomorrow night?"

"Absolutely." We're back where we should be, he thought with swelling pride. She was his girl all the way. All the talks, the convincing, the compromising – it was worth every second, just to have her looking at him like that again. They'd be together until at least graduation; and she was the first girl he could imagine staying with beyond then. "You're sure you can't come to the club tomorrow afternoon? Hang out with some stuffy lawyers and my bratty cousins?"

She laced her fingers with his as they started walking off the field. "I wish." She gave his arm a light squeeze when he snorted a laugh. "No, really. You'll be there, right? That'd make it worth it."

"That's debatable," he said, and he was glad none of his buddies were around to possibly pick up on how emotionally overwhelmed he felt when she was nearby. He would never hear the end of it. _Be careful what you say around them, Bob, because you got it bad._ He smiled to himself. "Well then, I will pick you up at seven-thirty, Miss Valence."

Setting her hand on his elbow, she leaned in close and whispered, "I'll be waiting."

#

The food was decent. That was about the only positive feature Bob could pick up on in this whole ordeal.

It was his cousin's birthday. She was sixteen, and she was dressed up and made up and primped six ways to Sunday like a bride on her wedding day. The whole reception area of the club was decked out in balloons, streamers, lights, flowers, and tulle. "I don't even remember what we did when I turned sixteen," Bob said.

"We do, however, know that it involved pork chops."

Bob smiled at Brian. "Okay. I'll give you that." One thing their mom always made sure of was that each of her children got their favorite meal on their birthday. Pork chops topped the list for Bob.

Brian popped a piece of shrimp into his mouth and turned to lean against the table next to Bob. "What time are you blowing this clam bake?"

He looked at his watch. "I'm picking up Cherry at seven-thirty. So I'm thinking between stopping for gas, calling Randy, maybe catching a shower . . . ."

"Four-ish," Brian finished for him, and they both laughed. "I'm not staying any longer than I have to, either. It's not like we all don't know this whole spectacle was put together for Dad and Uncle Ron to show themselves off. Poor Gwen thinks it's all for her."

Bob watched his brother reach back for a cracker. He looks different, Bob thought. Brian had always looked good in a suit, much more comfortable than Bob ever felt in one, but that wasn't it. It wasn't until he passed his gaze across the room to where The Judge's acquaintances were gathered, talking like they wanted to make each other believe they were friends, that it hit him – Brian was on the outskirts. He was on the fringes of the party, watching, instead of sidling his way in there to drop names and secure his future.

It was the first time Bob could remember his brother acting as a separate entity. Bob had no idea when or why it happened, but all of a sudden, Brian wasn't attached to The Judge anymore. He wasn't _the oldest_, or _the smart one_, or _the prodigy_; he was just Brian, standing there eating shrimp without a care in the world, and for the first time, Bob thought, he looks better and smarter than all of them. He looks like he knows something they don't. Like he figured it all out. The pull of affection that welled up from somewhere deep inside surprised Bob. It had been years since he'd seen anything in Brian other than a younger version of their father.

"You gonna ask me for a date?"

Bob blinked and shifted his gaze. "You're not up to my standards, man. Sorry."

"Piss off. I'm the best lay in town. I don't need you."

They both stifled their laughter when Chris walked up. "There's cake outside now."

Bob twirled a finger in the air. "Yippee."

Brian stepped forward, set a hand on Chris's shoulder, and gave a squeeze. "Come on, buddy. I like cake." He turned back to Bob. "You know, if you plan on getting the car washed, too, you can get yourself out of here by three-thirty."


	17. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Meatloaf owns Bat Out of Hell. I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 16**

_But I can't stop thinking of you,  
And I never see the sudden curve till it's way too late._

Dinner was typical – burgers, fries, Cokes, and milkshakes consumed to the incessant ramble of gossiping, greetings, and horn honking.

"It'll be dark soon," Marcia said. "Think we should head out? Before Mr. Popularity gets mobbed by any more fans?"

Bob leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. "Hey, when you got it, you got it."

"Well, I've had it. Let's go."

Bob smiled. Randy didn't always get Marcia's sense of humor, but Bob got a kick out of her. Marcia would have been first on the list if he had gotten to pick out his own sister instead of relying on the grab-bag of genetic chance. It kind of made him wish Randy would go steady with her, because some of the other girls he dated were a real piece of work. Marcia's easy manner and quick wit kept things light.

"I'm ready," Cherry offered.

Randy waved a waitress over for their bill. "I got it," he told Bob. "You can cover the popcorn and drinks later."

"Fine."

Cherry looped her arm around Bob's on the way out. "I still can't believe summer is over."

"I know." The nights were getting colder, but the days still held the warmth of summer. "Your family is still heading to the lake house next weekend?" At the memory of Cherry dripping wet, playing ball with her cousin, Bob hoped it would still be warm enough in a week for beaches and bathing suits.

"Yeah," Cherry said. "You're coming, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it for anything." Bob crossed his fingers and held them up in front of her. "You know, since me and your mom are so close and all."

She laughed and wrapped her hand around his fingers. "Okay. Just as long as we're clear – you're coming to hang out with my mom. Because I've got a date with the guy in the next cabin over."

He smiled and tickled her waist before pulling her close to him to kiss her hair. "You've got a date with one person, honey, and he sure ain't the neighbor guy."

#

It was nearly dark by the time they paid, pulled in, and found a spot. "Here," Bob said, handing Cherry a box.

"What's this?"

"Open it." He bounced his knee in anticipation. "Just something I thought you'd like."

Marcia crossed her arms on the seat behind them. "What is it?"

Cherry slid the ribbon from the box, and both girls let out a small gasp when she opened it. "It's gorgeous." She took the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger.

Bob took her hand and held it toward the window so the lights from outside glimmered on the tiny stone. "I can't believe it fits. I made a guess on the size."

He smiled when Cherry leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "It's perfect," she whispered.

.

And then, his neck was hit with a light spray when Marcia sneezed.

The four of them erupted in laughter. "Hey back there," Bob said, wiping his neck, "control your woman."

Marcia sneezed again. "Randy prefers to not be called a woman."

Randy leaned forward next to Marcia. "Is everybody now sufficiently contaminated?"

"I'm sorry. I just get these sneezing atta--" Marcia cut herself off with another sneeze.

"You have any Kleenex in here?" Cherry asked, and reached forward to open the glove box.

Bob froze for that brief instant when you know something irretrievable has happened, but a part of you still believes there's a chance to turn back time and make it not happen. "Cherry -"

"Planning on having a party?" Her tone was stiff, and she didn't look at him, even after she took the flask out of the glove box and opened it to smell the contents. She recoiled in disgust. "I'm leaving."

Her comment snapped Bob back into action. "Cherry, come on. Don't leave." She already had the door opened, so he reached out and wrapped his hand around her arm.

She jerked her arm away and whirled around to face him, her face contorted in anger. "Let go."

He set his jaw. "I wasn't going to -"

"What? You weren't going to what? Drink it? Do you think I'm stupid? What's it here for, to clean the windows? If you've got alcohol in your car, it's because you're planning on drinking it."

"You told her you were done drinking," Marcia pointed out, more matter-of-fact than accusing.

Bob took a slow breath, suddenly annoyed and embarrassed that she was making him feel like a child. "I don't have a problem, Cherry. I never did. There's no reason I should have to give something just because _you_ have an issue with it."

Her expression went from angry, to astonished. "No reason? _No reason?_ How about the fact that you told me you understood? That you told me you would give it up because I asked you to?" She was nearly shouting by then. "You lied to me! You looked right in my face and lied to me, just to appease me!" Cherry slid herself out of the car and started walking.

"Bye, Randy." Marcia hopped out of the back seat and followed Cherry.

"Wait!" Not bothering to open his own door, Bob slid across the front seat and jumped out. "Cherry, wait! Listen. It was . . . ." He closed his eyes and put his hands over his face. It was over, and he knew it. It didn't matter what he said, or what he did, or how many promises he made. Jaw clenched, he watched the girls head toward the chairs in front of the concession booth and sit down. Despite knowing that they were through, that she might never speak to him again, a smile tugged at his mouth – she wasn't leaving the movie. She was too proud to just walk away when she'd come to watch a movie.

Shaky regret rushed through him, and he turned back toward the car. If there was any chance of getting her back, it wasn't going to happen right here, right now.

Randy was leaning against the car watching him with wary curiosity.

"Come on," Bob said. "Let's take a drive."

#

He wanted to talk to somebody. Somebody who would understand how stupid and embarrassed and crushed and hurt he was. Somebody who would tell him it wasn't his fault, that she was the one with the problem, and he hadn't done anything wrong.

Anybody.

But he was tired of fooling himself. He was tired of playing games and knowing that half the time, what he said wasn't really what he meant. He just wanted her to _know_ that when he said he was sorry, they weren't just words; he was deeply, painfully sorry, and it was because she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he couldn't imagine being with somebody else. She would never know, though. She would never believe anything he ever said again, and within a couple of months, he'd pass by her locker, and she'd be holding somebody else's hand and wearing somebody else's ring.

"What now?" Randy had taken over the driving; they were pulled over on a side street.

Bob stretched his legs out in front of him, sighed deeply, and looked at his watch. "David's having a party, right? Let's just head over there for a while. We'll go back by the time the movies are over and get the girls, drive them home."

With a nod, Randy started the car. "Alrighty. David's it is."


	18. Chapter 17

Let's get this puppy finished up now, shall we?

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns _The Outsiders_. Meatloaf owns _Bat Out of Hell_. I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 17**

"_There's evil in the air and there's thunder in the sky,  
And a killer's on the bloodshot streets . . ."_

The party was okay, but Bob wasn't into it. One function blended into the next anymore; they all looked the same: dancing, drinking, incessant chatter . . . .

He just wasn't in the mood.

"Bob - you alright, man?"

Bob looked up from the couch and tried to remember the name of this kid who seemed to know exactly who _he_ was. "Fine. I'm fine." _Chemistry_. Chemistry? No . . . trigonometry. That was it. They had trig together.

He glanced at his watch; how was it only five minutes since the last time he'd checked it?

A staggering couple brushed against his legs as they passed by, the guy laughing and the girl hiccupping.

He leaned his head back and set his hands over his face. _I need to get out of here_.

It wasn't hard to find Randy; he was in the kitchen leaning against the counter, sipping a beer and chatting with a few guys about college applications.

Bob set a hand on Randy's shoulder and leaned into him. "It is way too early in the year for this crap."

"Hi, Bob." Philip Avery tipped an imaginary hat.

"Phil. You ready to go?" he asked Randy.

"Oh! Yeah, sure." Randy set his beer on the counter and waved to the guys he'd been talking to. "See you in school." He followed Bob through the crowd and out into the chilly air. "It actually feels better out here. Was getting hot as hell in there."

"Yeah." Bob pulled his keys out of his pocket. What could they do to waste another hour?

"Where're we going?"

Accustomed to being the executive decision maker, Bob paused next to the car with a sigh. He was just too goddamned tired to think tonight. "Let's go get a burger."

#

"You eating?"

Bob glanced at his plate in disgust and slid it to the middle of the table. "No."

Randy took a fry off the plate and twirled it around. "You alright?"

That was the thing about Randy – he didn't push. Ever. He was about the only person Bob could stand being around at a time like this. "I'm fine." _He knows I'm lying._ But he also knows when to back off, and that's why he's the best buddy a guy could ask for.

"The movies should be over in about ten minutes," Randy pointed out. "Think we should head out?"

"Where'd you guys stowe your dates?" Frank stepped up with a smile, glancing under the table as he approached. "Or was it an early night?"

Randy glanced at Bob before answering. "They stayed at the movie. We left."

Frank raised his eyebrows, apparently understanding enough to know that something had gone wrong and that his best strategy would be to not even ask.

Bob tossed his napkin on the table. "We're leaving now to pick them up."

Frank fell into step behind Randy. "Tom is with me. You want us to come along?"

#

"We'll never find anyone in this mess." Randy, who had once again taken over the driving, swerved to avoid a small crowd of laughing teenagers. "God, look at all these people. Didn't anybody bring a car?"

Bob rubbed his forehead with his fingers and sighed. "Just hit the end of the block and we'll circle back around." He figured they must have gotten a ride with somebody else, but he wouldn't rest easy until he knew Cherry was home safe. "We should have come back earlier, before the movie ended. Would have been easier to find them."

Frank snorted. "And pay for a carload five minutes before the end of the movie."

Bob rolled his eyes.

"We would have climbed the fence, you idiot," Randy said.

At the end of the block, Randy made a u-turn and headed back toward the entrance.

Tom crossed his arm on the back of the seats between Bob and Randy. "Maybe we should –"

"There." Bob straightened up at the sight of Cherry's figure, which stood out to him as clear as a tree against a moonlit sky. "They're right there. Turn around and park on the other side."

Randy squinted as they passed the girls. "Who the heck are they with?"

Like it mattered. _Not with us_. Bob's gut twisted; he didn't get this worked up about a rumble or a drag race or even a final exam. That annoyed him. No, it did more than annoy him. It scared him. It scared him that he was closer to despair than he'd ever been in his life, and that it was because of a girl, and that he would probably never be able to fix things with her.

Fleetingly, he wondered what it would be like to be stuck at the bottom of this dark hole, deep in his mind, for the rest of his life. What if he couldn't get out? What if he never met somebody like her again? What if –

"They're greasers." Randy shifted the car into park. "The girls are with greasers. I swear to God, if any one of those guys has even laid a finger on Marcia . . . ."

Frank tapped Bob on the shoulder as Bob reached to open his door. "Holler if you need us for backup," he said. With a nod, Bob swung the car door open and stepped out.

Cherry stood near the fence looking annoyed; the light breeze picked up her hair and swept strands of it across her face, but she didn't move to brush them aside. "Cherry, Marcia, listen," Bob said, and though he'd spoken to both of the girls out of consideration, he didn't take his eyes off of Cherry, "we didn't mean for any of this to happen. We were just here for a movie. Okay? I swear to God, we were just here for a movie. That . . ." he gestured toward the car, toward the glove compartment, toward that stupid goddamned flask that he should have just taken out of the goddamned car before something like this happened, "that didn't mean anything. It wasn't anything. Last time, at Jay's, that was . . . you can't keep going back to that. Just because we got a little drunk last time – "

"A little?" Cherry cut in. "You call reeling and passing out in the streets 'a little'? Bob, I told you, I'm never going out with you when you're drinking, and I mean it. Too many things could happen while you're drunk. It's me or the booze."

But the way she said it, and the look on her face, made it abundantly clear – _it's over_. Booze, no booze, whatever. You let me down big time, and I am finished with you. Bob's breath caught for a shaky second, just enough time for his chest to clench and his mouth to go dry. They were over. He'd drive her home, drop her off, and that would be the end of it.

". . . we got four more of us in the back seat," Randy's voice cut through, and Bob gave him a sharp look. They had two in the back seat who they probably wouldn't even need if it came down to it. Why the hell did Randy feel the need to artificially inflate their numbers? As dumb as they looked, these guys could more than likely count.

When one of the greasers broke a bottle on the fence and then pulled out a knife, the shot of adrenaline that should have surged through Bob didn't happen. He was just too damned tired. He wasn't even sure he had it in him to move out of the way if the kid with the bottle came after him.

"No!" Cherry's passionate cry cut through him deeper than that glass ever could. "Stop it!" With an empty and unfamiliar look that took his breath away, Cherry finally made eye contact with him. "We'll ride home with you. Just wait a minute."

"Why?" shot back one of the greasers, the one with the knife. "We ain't scared of them."

"I can't stand fights," Cherry said. "I just can't stand them."

_I will never drink again, I will never fight again, I will never let you down again. _ But it didn't matter. He knew it didn't matter what he did or didn't do, because once it was over, you couldn't go back, no matter how hard you tried to fix things.

When Cherry came to the car, Bob stepped aside to let her past.

"You two take the front seat," he said. "I'll get in the back."

Without a word, Cherry ducked past Bob, careful to avoid brushing against him, and set her hand on the door to steady herself.

In what felt like slow motion, he watched her cotton-candy pink fingernails disappear into the front seat.

_I'm sorry. _

But it didn't matter.


	19. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns _The Outsiders_. Meatloaf owns _Bat Out of Hell_. I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 18**

"_There's a man in the shadows with a gun in his eye  
And a blade shining oh so bright . . ."_

As soon as they dropped the girls off, Bob dumped the flask out of the glove compartment and poured the contents down his throat in three gulps. "Need a refill," he noted.

Randy turned the corner and pulled the car alongside the curb. He tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. "You know, maybe tomorrow, after she cools off – "

Bob raised a hand. "Don't. Don't even try, man." He gave his best friend a sidelong glance and a grin they both knew was as close to crying as Bob would get. "Don't even try."

By the time they'd gotten back to his house, the buzz was starting to kick in. If he didn't stay on top of it, though, it would drift away, leaving him alone with thoughts he preferred to keep at bay for the moment.

"Wait in the car," he whispered to Randy, realizing after the words were out how ridiculous it was to be whispering when nobody was around to hear them anyway. "Wait in the car," he repeated, louder, and laughed when Randy shushed him.

It wasn't enough of a buzz to make things like walking and opening doors difficult, but he sure as hell felt pretty goddamned relaxed. It wasn't until he had unlocked the liquor cabinet, stuffed two bottles into his jacket pockets, and turned around that he realized The Judge was home.

He sat in silence in the dark kitchen, lit only by the dim glow of the nightlight by the stove. His hand was wrapped around a glass – whiskey sour, Bob figured – that he twirled around every so often.

"Going back out?" The Judge asked, not taking his eyes off that glass.

The buzz was fading away at warp speed like some teen survival mechanism that Bob didn't particularly appreciate. "Yeah. I'm going out. Where's Mom?"

"Ladies' Auxiliary." Bob watched his father bring the glass to his lips and take a swallow. He didn't notice the paper clutched in The Judge's other hand until the glass was back in place on the table.

The Judge sighed and ran his finger around the edge of his glass. "I need you to transfer to Holland Hall."

Bob stared at his father, waiting for the punch line. When none was offered, he spoke. _"What?"_

"Holland Hall," his father repeated, and finally looked at him, gesturing vaguely with the crumpled letter. "I need you to transfer there. It's a good school."

His brain was making connections at record speed, especially, Bob figured, considering his recent beverage intake. Whatever this was about, the answer was on that paper in his father's hand. "What's in the letter?"

The Judge closed his eyes for a second before speaking. "I can't send Chris. He'll argue. He'll ask questions." He looked at Bob with sagging eyes. "I'd rather he not know."

"What's in the letter?" Bob asked again. He leaned against the counter and shifted the bottles so they wouldn't drop out of his pockets.

"It's . . . I knew her back before Chris was born. Your mother and I, we had some . . . problems." He gave his head a slight shake. "She never asked for anything. Nothing. And she could have. But the kid, he's, uh . . . he's been getting into trouble. She wants to get him into a better school." He looked toward Bob without actually looking at him. "She wants him to have a better chance. More opportunities."

Bob's gut was clenched so tight, he nearly doubled over. "Jesus Christ, Dad. You have a kid?"

"A guy over at Holland Hall owes me a couple favors," he went on. "He can do two half scholarships, discreetly. He'll bring in both of you under one tuition. Your mother . . . there will only be one bill. Just your name."

Bob worked to steady his breathing. "Was it that whore that was with you in the restaurant? Is that her?"

His father gave him a sharp look. "No. It wasn't like that with her. You don't know anything about what things were like back then, so keep your damned mouth shut." He looked back to his glass and took another swallow. "She's a good woman. Never asked for anything for the kid. Not that I didn't give her what I could, when I could," he added.

"Oh my God, Dad. Jesus." Bob rubbed his fingers against his forehead. "So what the hell happens when I graduate? How much longer has this kid got once I'm finished?"

"This _kid_, he's your brother."

"No. No, he's not my brother. He's your bastard kid. Don't you dare try to connect me to him. Don't you _dare_ try to lay any responsibility for him on me. How old is he?"

"He's Chris's age." Bob's father leaned forward, arms on the table, and twisted his glass in slow circles. "I figured, once you transfer over for the year . . . ."

"Chris'll be begging to go," Bob finished.

"He looks up to you."

Bob squeezed his eyes shut, swore, clenched his teeth, and wrapped his fingers around the neck of one of the bottles. His father barely flinched when he slammed the thing into the counter behind him, sending a spray of glass and liquid across the floor. "Alright. Fine. Transfer me. But I swear to God, if you ever ask me to cover for you again, I will walk out that front door and I will never come back."

Holding the second bottle securely in his pocket, Bob left his father exactly as he'd found him.

#

He was way beyond buzzed now. It wasn't helping, though. It pissed him off that thoughts of Cherry suddenly seemed trivial. Leave it to The Judge to invalidate Bob's pain simply by producing an even bigger problem.

"S'more," Bob said, holding out his flask.

Randy stared at him, wide-eyed. "You askin', or offerin'?"

Bob stared back, then snorted a laugh. "I forget."

"So what's the plan?" Frank asked from where he sat on the hood of the car. "We heading out to kick some butts and take some names?"

Bob closed his eyes. Goddamned Judge. Goddamned homebreaking whores. Goddamned bastard kids. An image of Chris floated through his mind, just on the fringes. What would Chris be like once he figured out what the world was really like? It made him sick just thinking about it. He wanted to do some butt kicking, all right, but the only name that came to mind was the only one he couldn't touch – his father's.

With a growl, he slammed his fist into the door of the car.

_Those greasers._ The ones who'd gone after Chris. A little vengeance could be a good thing tonight. Tonight, Bob wasn't just indestructible. He was pissed off. Why waste that kind of energy on anything other than kicking the ass of somebody who desperately deserved it?

"The greasers," he said. "Let's find those guys."

Frank hopped off the hood with a grin. "Now you're talking. I'll drive."

#

An hour later, after picking up David, circling the warehouse district twice, and stopping three times to piss in alleys and shrubs, Bob was getting annoyed. This was bullshit. He was losing his buzz, it was freezing outside, and apparently, everybody in the entire world was asleep in their beds. Which didn't seem like such a bad idea.

He leaned forward to tell Frank to dump him off in his driveway and just bring the car back in the morning.

"There," Frank said, pointing. "See? Over near the fountain?"

"That's them," Randy agreed with a slow nod.

Bob sat back. Fine, then – a little warm-up action, and _then_ he'd go home and crawl into bed. Literally.

It wasn't until they'd gotten out of the car and were approaching Chris's attackers that he realized something was wrong. These weren't the right guys.

The two kids watched them with wary anticipation, ready to fight despite the fact they were facing two against five odds. Bob glanced around, but unless there was an ambush hiding up in the trees, these guys were alone. He was about to give Frank a slap in the back of the head for targeting the wrong criminals when one of the greasers made eye contact with him, and it hit him – they were the ones from the drive-in. They were the greasers Cherry and Marcia had been walking with.

It hardly seemed worth it to harass them, but Bob's crew was hovering in the background, waiting for him to do something. How would it look if he turned around and walked away from the guys who'd made a move on his girl? Even though she wasn't his girl anymore and probably hadn't been since early in the evening? He knew exactly how it would look, to all involved, because they had stepped out of the bounds of civilized life and into something more like wild kingdom – it would like he was a coward. A pathetic, infatuated, whipped coward who would lay down and let another guy take his girl who wasn't really his. That wouldn't do at all, no matter how much sense it didn't make.

There were only two of them. It wasn't like it would take much effort to keep his rep intact.

Bob smiled. "Hey, whatta ya know? Here's the little greasers that picked up our girls. Hey, greasers."

The hunched-over kid in the shadows stiffened. "You're outa your territory. You'd better watch it."

As a unit, the five of them took a step closer. Bob stared at the kid who'd spoken, and mentally cursed himself for getting into this when he wasn't really into it. The burst of mind-clearing adrenaline that normally came hand-in-hand with a fight was frustratingly absent. God, he wanted to go to bed. But at least the show would be over soon: psyche them out, rough them up, toss in a few threats, and go the hell home.

Frank gave a throat-clearing cough.

_Out of your territory._ That's what the kid had said. Bob blinked, trying to remember where he'd seen this kid before. School? It didn't matter. He shook off the fog again before speaking. "Nup, pal, yer the ones who better watch it. Next time you want a broad, pick up yer own kind – dirt."

The younger kid, Bob noticed, was taking the bait like a bass grabbing flies. "You know what a greaser is?" he asked. "White trash with long greasy hair." _Long greasy hair, and moms who screw married men and then blackmail them when the chips are down._

The kid clenched his teeth. "You know what a Soc is? White trash with Mustangs and madras." A spray of saliva hit Bob in the cheek when the kid spit at them. Original.

_Now let's get this clam bake over with._

Bob smiled and shook his head. "You could use a bath, greaser. And a good working over. And we've got all night to do it. Give the kid a bath, David." Bob had no intention of completely freezing himself to death in that water. He'd deal with the other kid while David dunked the younger one a few times.

Frank made a grab for the dark-haired kid, but missed because he was so drunk.

_Goddamn_. You want something done, you have to do it yourself.

But instead of turning and running, the kid was coming back toward him. Bob sidestepped and reached for the kid's arm, instinctively twisting at the same time to shoulder off the attack.

_Was there such a thing as karma?_ _Did fate exist? Could your bad deeds come back to bite you in the ass? Or was it all just random, pointless chance?_

All of that raced through his mind in the blink of an instant when he looked again at the dark-haired kid and finally knew where he'd seen him before – it was the kid who'd never slighted him, the one he had used to get back at the world for chipping away at Chris's innocence.

_Did I leave that scar on his face?_

His final thought, just as he saw the knife, but before the pain took all other thoughts away, was that this time, something in the universe had managed to set the balance perfectly, precisely, horribly right.

"_And the last thing I see is my heart  
still beating,  
still beating,  
Breaking out of my body, and flying away,  
like a bat out of hell."_


	20. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns _The Outsiders_. Meatloaf owns _Bat Out of Hell_. I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Epilogue**

"_And I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell . . ."_

He did the same thing he'd been doing every morning for the past couple of weeks: shuffle into the kitchen, take a bowl from the cabinet, get the Corn Flakes from the pantry, fill the bowl, add milk, get a spoon from the drawer, and sit down at the table.

The house was quiet, which he wasn't sure felt any better than when there was noise. Either way, everything was wrong. The silence was eerie and grief-filled. The noise was howling and lonely.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Chris blinked and took a steadying breath.

_He'll be coming down the steps in a few minutes._ He'll get his own bowl, or some coffee, and sit down at the table. He'll open the Sunday paper and pretend to be Dad, adjusting imaginary glasses and peering down his nose at the funny pages like they're the stock market reports. "I seen Dagwood is up five sandwiches today," he would say.

But maybe that's not what he would say. Would he? Chris needed to ask him. He needed . . . .

He stood up, picked up his bowl, and just like every other morning, dumped the whole thing in the sink with a clank. Then, he stood over the sink, head down and eyes closed, and waited for the waves of panic to recede. Gone, gone, gone. _Please don't be gone._

With a sniff, he backed away from the sink and turned around. The grandfather clock chimed nine times from its spot in the corner of the dining room.

Chris put a hand against his abdomen when it gave a sickening, sloshing grumble.

The day after the funeral, Brian had found a note from Bob written on the inside cover of the Mustang's owner's manual. Later that day, Dad had called Mr. Adderson and asked him to please come and take the car. _Nobody here wants it._ They couldn't bring themselves to go in his bedroom yet, much less drive his car.

Mom was asleep upstairs, so medicated she barely recognized any of them. The paramedics had had to come and give her a shot that first morning to calm her down, and she had barely made it through the funeral. A nurse kept watch over her from a chair in the corner of the room.

Dad had retreated to his office, his eyes empty and his responses to even the simplest questions tired and delayed.

Leaning back against the counter, Chris stared at the calendar on the wall and let his mind wander ahead to the days and weeks and months and years that spread before him, empty. _How was he supposed to do this alone?_

It hadn't even really helped that they found the guy who did it. People kept talking about justice and closure, but Chris didn't feel any of that. There was just another dead guy, and Bob was still gone. He hadn't even gotten say anything to the guy, to let him know how hated he was. Mom had told Chris before that hate was a strong word, too strong to describe how you feel when your friend makes you mad or your brother teases you. Now, he understood. For the first time in his life, Chris knew what hate was.

With a shaky hand, he reached into his pocket and slid out the folded newspaper clipping. Today was the funeral.

Outside, a light wind sent a flurry of leaves racing across the back yard as if the world hadn't ended twelve days ago.

Chris pushed himself away from the counter and went to the foyer closet for his jacket. There, still in the pocket, was the bus schedule from six months earlier. He unfolded it, ran his finger down the times, and held the newspaper clipping – John Cade's obituary – up next to it.

There was a bus in twenty minutes.

He didn't bother telling anybody where he was going. They probably wouldn't have let him anyway, and this was something Chris needed to do. He didn't know why, but he needed to go to that funeral. He needed to tell that John Cade guy what he thought of him. Maybe this was his closure. Maybe this was the end.

Or maybe, he thought, this was what he needed to do to start moving through those days and months and years without his dark-haired brother. Maybe this was just the beginning.


End file.
